soul-cystah

The Road Runs Both Ways

2005-03-14T16:05:00.000-06:00

I have admitted that in the past, shamefully, I do have trouble remembering that C is not adopted. Apparently, I also have trouble remembering that A & N are adopted.

Yesterday, I was in the midst of changing clothes when I heard some health reporter say that women who have had three or more children were at increased risk of prolapse (prolapse of what, I do not know, as I promptly blew a gasket in fear). So, naturally, I did what any health-conscious women who doesn’t have time for a quick Google search would do: I stewed and worried about my poor prolapsed whatsit all fucking night. After all, I have three kids! I’m right in the middle of the doomed population! Something inside could be thinking about falling out right now! Or now! Or even now! I even had a little trouble falling asleep, because I was thinking how mortifying it will be for me to go to Dr. W, crying to him because something or another is in imminent danger of falling out of my hoo-hah! I was doing kegals like crazy, because my luck my poor prolapsed part would fall completely out and I would trip over it on my way to the bathroom.

The next day at work, I resolved to Google the shit out of that health reporter’s statement at my earliest opportunity. I will take each and every preventative measure to insure that what’s meant to be inside will stay on the inside, goddamnit! Do you hear my pelvis? Keep your parts to yourself, yo!

But then . . .

Then I remembered: Those older two kids are adopted! They didn’t affect my hoo-hah in any way, shape, or form! Only one kid affected my girly parts! I’m in the clear!

What a relief.

Until next time.

Underappreciated

2005-03-11T16:45:00.000-06:00

I know this scene just screams out SCARRED FOR LIFE BY INFERTILITY, but what the hell else can you expect from me.

Some co-workers and I are sitting at a popular restaurant ~~enjoying~~ still waiting for our lunch, when my co-worker Jane mentions that her niece will be getting married and she’s all planning one of those hip & trendy Destination Weddings in Mexico. And initially I'm all agreeing with everyone 'cause sure it sounds good on the surface, but then my mind hits a chug hole in my thought processes . . . and I say . . .

"But wait! Jane! I know ya’ll think that’s just a fabulous idea but hey! maybe not. Wait, see, your niece might not want to do that, because what if she and her husband can’t make babies so good and like then she might want to adopt internationally you know and then it’s going to be such a bitch getting a Mexican marriage license authenticated! You, like, never know! Better safe than sorry! Think about it! Think about it!"

That little speech causes the entire table to be all staring at me like I’ve gone all crazy-like for some reason. And all that staring-at-me-like-I'm-crazy makes me shut up. And that crazy part may be true, but it wouldn't be because of the aforementioned incident. 'Cause I’m telling you: it makes perfect sense to me. I can't help it if I'm giving out good advice for free and they won't take it.

I'm just sayin', is all.

Mommy Dearest

2005-03-10T16:20:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, I wonder if having a third kid has damaged my brain. For real, ya'll.

Last weekend, I decided the kids and I would make some brownies. A and C loooove to bake and they love chocolate, so this seemed like a good plan. And it went well, I try to bake with them every other weekend or so, and they are really becoming quite accomplished. A can almost bake a cake by herself. Of course, it’s out of The Cake Mix Doctor cookbook, but she’s only 6, so I think that’s pretty good for a 6 year old. Hell, I think I’m doing pretty good for a 31 year old when I bake a cake out of The Cake Mix Doctor. Don’t I sound like a model parent? Not only am I keeping fresh baked goods in the home (thereby sounding very much like Suzy Homemaker), but I am also encouraging the children’s creative energies by allowing them freedom in baking.

Oh, but wait. Bad parenting did rear its ugly head. Witness:

I did let them lick the spoon.

And the beater.

Oh hell, I might as well admit that I let them lick the mixer bowl, which they thoroughly enjoyed, even at the risk of salmonella.

N got so into the bowl-licking that he had to take a shower. But, A and I cleaned up the kitchen and all was well.

Further bad parenting abounds when:

Later, I went into my bathroom and was appalled to find out that someone had gotten poop all over my toilet! And my bathroom wall! And I remembered my tirade on Toilet Lady, and so I set out to locate the culprit, because I am not raising any Toilet Ladies, I’ll have you know. By the size of the handprints (yes, I’m referring to poop handprints, you read that right), I figure N is my prime suspect and I set out to interrogate him. He fervently denies any involvement in such deeds. In fact, he denies even pooping, let alone making a mess with the resulting poop. However, he is the only one with that size of hands in our household, and if the glove fits, I can’t acquit, people.

So he is sentenced to time in the corner and a stern lecture, to atone for his ~~sins~~ unrepentant rampant pooping and then lying about it. He is in tears, but I have a zero-tolerance policy where these things are concerned, and therefore I must be strong (as have long history of caving where N and punishment are concerned).

Then I start wondering why N is in his pajamas already.

And then I remember that he took a shower.

And then it dawns on me that the reason he took a shower was because he was covered in brownie batter.

And he took his shower in my bathroom.

Oh yeah . . . oh wait a minute . . . the light is dawning in my weak mind . . .

So, despite my brief bout dumbass-induced amnesia, I am finally capable of deducing that the handprints in question are not POOP they are BROWNIE BATTER! God, yet once again, I feel like such an idiot mother. I mean, what kind of mother would punish her kid due to her own forgetfulness? I’m sure this could be a felony in some states.

I wish I could wrap this up with "and then I rescued N from the corner and we shared a tearful hug, and all was well." But N holds a grudge (not unlike his mother) and his heart of stone could only be softened by allowing him to eat brownies that were shockingly hot from the oven (possibly another example of bad parenting).

So now you see why I have considered requesting some sort of brain scan from my doctor, don't you? Things are deteriorating at an alarming rate over here.

Gah, typing this all out has me fervently hoping for the millionth time that one of my former social workers doesn’t stumble across my blog.

Hookey

2005-03-04T14:10:00.000-06:00

Alternately titled: Another Good Idea Shot to Hell

Today the weather is beautiful here, plus it is Friday. So, as a result of my self-diagnosed ADD and SAD, I have thusly diagnosed myself with spring fever. A brief phone consult with T reveals that he is suffering from the same malady. Being a clever and inventive girl, I set about devising a cure. I came up with this:

I would call his work, thereby employing my acting skills by pretending to be school nurse calling in regard to sick child needing to be picked up immediately. In kind, I expected him to do the same for me. I thought this to be a brilliant plan to jumpstart an early weekend. Alas, he did not feel the same. He is firmly rooted in the belief that we should just tough work out for the next three hours. Even adding the incentive of holing up in motel room, for the purpose of our engaging in three illicit hours of wild jungle sex did nothing to change his mind. God, that man is stubborn and I swear, this is just another example of his pentecostal upbringing constantly rearing its ugly head to bite me in the ass.

Yawn.

Bad Parenting Moment #432439

2005-02-25T15:45:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, I amaze even myself at my ability to make myself look like a jackass, just so you know.

As a little helpful background info: T is coaching A's basketball team. Also, C has been sickish this week, and so he hasn't been sleeping well, therefore I haven't been sleeping well either. So, in the evenings, it is my custom to be grouchy and irritable, now more so than usual.

Last night after the whole supper/bath rigamarole, we are all in agreement that we are tired, so for lack of funds and energy, we make the executive decision to veg out in front of the healing powers of television. T, A, and C set up camp in the living room and were watching basketball on the TV. N doesn't care to watch basketball At All, so he and I relocated ourselves into my bedroom, so he could watch Shrek 2. Now, since I have seen Shrek 2 a few times, I fell asleep. The next thing I know, A is thisclose to my face, waving back and forth, yammering on about something I couldn't understand. As I'd just fallen asleep, this sudden commotion and in my face waving, made me disoriented, confused, as well as my usual grouchy and irritable. So, as any good mother would, I let loose a string of profanity so the household would know my displeasure at this situation. And, since I’m grouchier than normal (due to aforementioned lack of sleep), I further unleashed some more mad rantings about what was going on, etc. ONLY THEN I came to my senses and realized that A wasn't waving her HAND in my face, she was waving THE PHONE in my face

And it was Turned ON

And it had a basketball parent on the other end

And it had been right in my face during my whole tirade

Oh yeah. See, my jackass-ness knows no boundaries! It is Limitless!

Because T & C had fallen asleep, A had answered the phone (something she doesn’t normally do), because she knows that C has been sick, so we've been trying to let him rest.

The poor basketball parent apologized profusely for "disturbing" me, undoubtedly thinking that I was disturbed enough already. This incident makes me laugh maniacally just typing it out. I mean, Shit! sometimes, I even surprise myself.

I'm quite sure the Chinese government had absolutely no idea this kind of thing would happen when they gave me a baby.

Mi hermana is muy loca in la cabeza

2005-02-25T11:55:00.000-06:00

My sister is crazy in the head.

This particular post really has no discernible entertainment value, to the best of my knowledge. Feel free to skip the whole damn thing, especially if you're already feeling depressed. It’s mostly just me sifting through my inner turmoil, and rather than screaming at the top of my lungs, I decided to just blog instead. My neighbors don’t even realize that they should be filled with gratitude. Alas. If anyone does manage to slog thru this mess and has constructive advice, it's much appreciated.

We come from a fairly normal fam, my three sisters and I. My middle sister, CJ and I have always been very close. CJ has also always been very close to my kids. Up until the past year, I would have called CJ one of my best friends. Now, I feel like I don’t even know her. Here is why:

I Do Not Understand Why My Sister Would Live With A Man Who:

Sleeps with other women
Does not have a job
Does not look for a job
Has 4 children that he neither a) sees or b) pays child support for
Has stolen the following items from her: new leather club chairs, two new TVs, one new computer with flat screen, stereo equipment, laptop computer, Christmas presents for her entire family. All of this loot was sold for money to feed his addiction
Has (on several occasions) taken her car, not returned for days, knowing that she uses that car to commute to work
Sits around her house drunk/high all day
Has stolen enormous sums of money from her, including but not limited to stealing rent checks out of the mailbox, altering & cashing them.
Has caused my sister to nearly be arrested for something that he did
Has ran up huge phone bills, on both her cell and land lines. She’s making payments on those, but as of right now, they’re both out of service.

Especially since my sister:
Comes from a good family, who has offered to support her in whatever way possible to help her out of this abusive relationship
Has so many good friends who have even offered to let her live with them, until the bum leaves
Has a college education
Has worked so hard for everything she has
Has a fabulous job that pays twice what I make, yet now she is always penniless

Where We Were a Close Knit Family, Now My Sister:
Did not even come to the hospital when I had C, whereas she threw coming home parties for A and N
Has visited our family 3 times in the past 9 months, sum total of time spent with family does not exceed 12 hours, whereas she used to spend entire weekends with my kids
Refuses to let us come visit her. At. All.
Does not call us. At. All.
Feels that we "lecture" her too much and when we're not "lecturing" her, we are unconsciously making her "feel guilty", hence the no calling/no visitation policy.

You see how this boggles the mind, eh? I have (mostly) said nothing, with the notable exception of Christmas, in which my sister came home bawling because Jock (let's just call him this bastardized form of his real name) had sold her television. Later we find out from CJ's best friend that Jock also sold All The Christmas Presents that she had purchased for her friends and family. Recently, she found pictures of him with another woman and an infant, looking quite cozy. These were dated within the last few months. Yet, she's hesitant to ask him who the hell these people are. Because that's "his private business". My ass, it is.

What's a girl to do? It pisses me off that, for now, I essentially have no sister. But, as a mother, it totally chaps my ass even more that she's completely cut my kids out of her life. On the other hand, I'm not sure that I want them around her at all when she's acting so fucked up. I have so many emotions--confusion, shock, grief, pissed-offedness, disbelief.

Sometimes, I don't like people so good.

Open Commentary to the Woman In the Stall Next Door

2005-02-21T16:05:00.000-06:00

So, this past weekend, T and I went out to the Olive Garden (when we're there, we're family). I know some people who think they're too classy for TOG, but the Cystah Family most definitely is not that kind. We love it there: the kids like it, it's not too spendy, and it's Not McDonalds, thereby satisfying three of our most important requirements. TOG offers one of my most favorite entrees in the whole world, possibly, and that is Chicken Alfredo Pizza, which is beloved by me for the abundance of cheese and also for the abundance of garlic, Amen. We were having a fabulous time together, gorging ourselves and the baby had his first tiramisu and he saw that it was good.

On our way out, I stopped by the ladies room.

I had consumed so much water (as a courtesy to try to dilute garlic breath) and I had to pee terribly. The ladies room was eerily quiet, and I went into the first available stall and I had to pee soooooo bad, I already had the button to my jeans undone.

When I looked down.

And.

I.

Saw.

The toilet was covered in shit. Not just a errant streak, mind you, I'm talking 'bout: actual shit. Splatters, turds, spray, the works. Someone had really went all out.

Now, it might surprise you to find out that I have my own Code of Toilet Ethics and one of the hallmarks involves Flushing One's Own Product. Needless to say, this stall was obviously in violation so I moved my delicate sensibilities and unbuttoned jeans on down to the next stall. Shortly thereafter, a woman (this is a presumption on my part, as was still in the stall, so could not ascertain gender at this time) came in and went into That Shitty Stall. I was busy peeing, but the thought crossed my mind that she wouldn't stay in there long. But she did. She not only stayed in there, but she went pee in there! With the shit! In that shitty stall! Now, I do not have x-ray vision, but I didn't not hear the rattle of any paper potty covers (believe you me, I made a mental note of that). During the hand washing, Toilet Lady exited (and not with haste! no!) that stall and I managed, with effort, to refrain from any commentary on her activities, which may or may not have involved someone else's shit.

I can only conclude that she squatted above the toilet. But even so! Squatting above that? Why, Toilet Lady? When so many (at least three) stalls are vacant? How could you do that, Toilet Lady? Were you not grossed out? I am rather gagging, just typing this part. Toilet lady! Stop such behavior immediately, as it is not sanitary. The Board of Health has got my back on this, I feel certain.

From An Unexpected Source: Assvice revisited

2005-02-17T16:55:00.000-06:00

I have written this post at least three times now and blogger has eaten each and every one. So you'll just have to take my word for it: the first time was best. Now it's lost something.

I have various and sundry acquaintances that I don’t see for months at a time. The relationships are still there, but time/distance/whathaveyou is such that we just aren’t that close. I think this is normal, but my sister assures me that it's not. So maybe I'm just an asshole where friendship is concerned. I don't know. Anyway. Another thing about me, though, is that I’m fairly open about my experiences with infertility and adoption. As such, some of my casual acquaintances know that I’m happy to discuss most issues related to such things. And, I always like to live vicariously through others adoption experiences. That is just how I am.

Anyway, a week or so ago, I happened upon Jen, an acquaintance that I hadn’t seen for two-ish years. Jen and I have never been especially close, but for some reason she chose to confide in me a bit during her first adoption (she’s now mom to a beautiful toddler girl). We chatted a bit, she shared the news of preparations for their second adoption; I realized that she hadn’t heard about my pregnancy/subsequent third kid. I was as delicate as I could be about the matter—I am still “aware” of sensitivity, to the best of my ability.

Jen somewhat shocked the shit right out of me, though, when she offhandedly mentioned, “Well, naturally, I’d much rather what happened to you, happen to me.” I was confused (it doesn’t take much, as you well know). She elaborated: “well, now we’ve adopted once, and I keep thinking that now we’ll finally, finally get pregnant.” And she was quite serious when she said this. Naturally, I handled the situation without an iota of grace (think mostly smiling and nodding). I’m a complete idiot when it comes to unexpected awkwardness in my everyday life. Really, I think I was a total dumbass. Shouldn’t I have said something meaningful in this situation? I mean, should I have? For some reason that I still can’t explain, I just felt sad for her. Maybe it’s just that infertility just sucks so thoroughly and can never really go totally away. Maybe because it seemed like she still dwelled under the "adoption is second best" mind set. Whatever. We don't see each other much, I felt it best to let it go. But I still felt ~~lacking~~ like a big jackass loser.

I guess I’m just surprised that the assvice of “Adopt! You get pregnant!” has been passed around so much that even some infertile women believe it.

Time Warp 1999

2005-02-15T16:59:00.000-06:00

Let's take a trip down memory lane, shall we? Yes, we shall because it's my blog and I say so.

Some people may be envious of pregnancy (for completely justifiable reasons), but I have had adoption jealousy so much lately. I probably will always love reading/chatting about those days of social worker woes, fingerprint delays, packing lists, and referral pictures (thereby exhibiting further evidence that I am completely crazy).

It was almost exactly six years ago that we were awaiting A's referral. Yeah, I know there are those that belong to the Refuse to Wait Club (a life philosophy involving trying to take one's mind off the impending adoption, blah, blah, bullshit, blah) in adoption, but I say fuck that shit. It's my kid and I'll Wait if I damn well want to. And we wanted to. Besides, being this was our first kid, we had nothing else capable of distracting us At All, so why fight fate, I say. And since our referral was supposed to have been sent by the end of January, we were more than a little anxious. I imagine I felt close to how an overdue pregnant woman must feel, sans the physical discomfort. I hadn't resorted to X'ing off the calendar days with red marker, in the same manner as I did as a child whilst awaiting summer vacation, but I was perilously close to such madness. I spent nearly all my working hours glaring at the phone, willing it to ring. When the phone did manage to sqawk, naturally, it was never The Call I Was Waiting For. And for some reason, that made me irrationally mad at whoever was calling (poor bastards) because they weren't the adoption agency. Also, it was winter, thusly I am more prone than normal to such fits of glaring and irrational irritability and holding grudges, etc. It is due to the lack of sun and also the lack of warmth, and thereby I can't be held responsible for the extra added grouchiness. I do what I can with what I have.

Finally, the phone rang. And it was The Call! Oh my God, IT WAS FINALLY THE CALL? THE CALL I THOUGHT I'D PAID $12,000 FOR AND GAVE UP ON EVER HAPPENING! GOD HAD NOT FORSAKEN ME IN MY ADOPTION PURSUITS AFTER ALL! And so here is a transcript of:

The Call That Altered Our Lives Permanently, Forevermore; Mostly For The Better

Adoption Agency: "L? It's D."

Me (hoping against hope): D! Yes. Hi. Hello. How are you? Good to hear from you! (I always sound like a total idiot on the phone, but more so a) when I'm nervous and b) when I'm speaking with an adoption professional.)

AA (with mucho gusto): "I'm looking at a little picture!"

Me (am now feeling confused): "Um, what? Yeah, huh?"

AA: "A picture! A little square picture of your baby!"

Me: "Really? Wow. Um, wow!" (Should have considered more appropriate conversation fodder/responses for this call ahead of time. But didn't. I do think to start writing things down at this point. Which surprises me, as that is a very levelheaded thing to do, and we all know that levelheaded is one thing I am not.)

AA (now with a healthy dose of skepticism, almost certainly with regard to my parenting abilities, as I'm sounding like a total dumbass): "Yes, L! This is The Call! Your referral is finally here!"

Me (light finally dawning in stupid head): "Oh My God! Tell me all about her? Like, how old is she? Where is she? What's her name?

AA (chuckling, sounding slightly mollified): "She's 6 months old, born August 9, and living in Jiangxi province her name is Xian."

Me: "She's a Leo! I knew she'd be a Leo!"
Me: "But, uh, what? Her name is what?"

AA (confused by my dumbass changes in subject): "Xian, her name is Xian."

Me: "What? What is it" (I'm not kidding, I was really having like some sort of bizarre deafness, induced by my own idiocy. )

AA: "XIAN. XIAN."

Me: "Okay! Yay!" (immediately I hang up the phone to call dh! Because he's still Waiting! He doesn't know he doesn't have to Wait anymore! And I must tell him right now!)

###

Me: "The adoption agency called! We have our referral! We have a baby girl waiting for us!

T: "Oh my God, tell me all about her!"

Me: "Oh. Um."

T: "What? What? How old is she? What's her name?"

Me: "I can't remember. I can't remember what she said!"

And with that, I burst into tears, disgusted with my own tendencies to behave like a complete lunatic. I REALLY COULDN'T REMEMBER! First the deafness, now this! God, I remember feeling like a total nutcase, and typing this out it is clear to me that I really was. Because you know what? Even though I couldn't remember anything D had said during The Call, I'd completely spaced out the fact that I'd written everything down. Yep. Oh, yeah. That's how tightly I was wound. So T had to call the agency back and try to bluff his way through the fact that he'd married a total asshole, without jeopardizing our adoption.

And yeah, despite all that, I'm still jealous.

Pettiness Revealed

2005-02-10T16:28:00.000-06:00

So during the most recent bout of Enforced Time With My InLaws, T and I have been seeing a lot of his relatives than I would like to. As an extra irritant, he rarely tolerates my snarkiness with regard to them, however the last time T and I saw his niece M (19) a few weeks ago, we separately came to the suspicion that she might be pregnant. This was based upon several different things: 1) a sudden engagement; 2) a rather large chest when she has always been most vocal about how disgruntled she is with her flat-chestedness; 3) she's almost waif-like in her thinness and was now a bit punchy; and 4) she was wearing baggy clothes when she is always dressed in Slightly Slutty. M was also quite chatty with my kids and she is never like that. Thusly, when T and I met up in the Jeep, we could hardly contain ourselves from the speculation. T is not overly observant when it comes to pregnantness, but my Subfertile Girl radar is always on when it comes to such matters and it never lies.

We were feeling fairly sure in our assessment.

So sure in our assessment, that T broached the subject with MOL shortly thereafter. Naturally, MOL was completely astonished that we I would think such a thing (as usual, she presumes I'm being a troublemaker) and that of course M was not pregnant and MOL knew this for a fact. Despite his usual abstinence from snarking on his family, T did join me in my speculation of how she could have independently verified my niece's non-pregnant status. T did not go so far in this rare moment of snark to join me in my "doth protest too much" sentiment. As a devout pentacostal, MOL is Very Uptight about premarital sex and Extremely Uptight about unwed motherhood, and in turn T is Very Uptight about making fun of his own mom. And so that concluded our discussion.

Until today.

Guess who just announced that she's knocked up? God, you guys are good! HaHa, MOL! See, I wasn't being gossip-y, just observant, when I thought she might be pregnant. Yep, T's niece will be having a rather hasty wedding after all, as my Subfertile Girl pg radar is once more proven to be infallible.

I ~~will~~ won't refrain from telling you about how my SOL freely tells other unwed/pregnant teenagers that they should "give their baby up for adoption" to a "more deserving couple". It's my sincere hope that this situation will put an end to that particular spiel, but I'm not getting my hopes up or anything.

Naturally, given my own suckiness in the reproduction department, I always feel a bit ahem, lacking when others get pregnant so effortlessly. I don't wish T's niece any ill-will--she's a fairly responsible girl, but she's so young and inexperienced and she's got a rather difficult path ahead of her. I mostly feel sorry for her, but yet one can't help but be reminded of the unfairness of it all.

For this, be thankful

2005-02-04T16:31:00.000-06:00

My God, but 60 degree weather in February is just unheard of UNHEARD OF I TELL YOU. At least in my neck of the woods it is. It is beautiful outside. And just in case I haven't mentioned it previous, I have a hard enough time keeping my mind on my own goddamned work during normally dismal winter weather. I have no need of additional distractions, thankyouvery much. Particularly since I'm working on The Project That Stinks Worse Than Satan's Shit. And That Project makes me More Easily Distracted Than Usual.

So thusly, it has resulted in the following scintillating IMs spewing forth from my computer:

To my friend Cyn, at about 1:55, barely a half hour after returning from lunch, late like usual
Me: God, it is only 2! 2! It feels like it should at least be 2:30.
Cyn6197: I know, I know.

To my friend Cyn again, at about 2:45
Me: OMG! It is not even 3! What is it with this day!!! What?! What?
Cyn6197: I know, I hear you. It's the weather. You can't help it.

To my friend Cyn another time, at about 4:03
Me: OMG! Is 5:00 never going to get here ever? EVER? This is the slooooowweeeessstt day so far this week. Thank God the week is over. Or over soon. But not soon enough.
Cyn6197: I know, I know, you've said that before. I already told you, it's the nice weather combined with a long work week makes for a very slow Friday. We already talked about this.

As you might imagine, it's nearly 4:30 so I'm preparing to IM Cyn again, just to bitch about the time. She is such a good friend.

This is the Tuesday of My Disappointment

2005-02-02T16:55:00.000-06:00

Okay, many of us know that today is Groundhog Day, here in the US, a somewhat bizarre yet endearing tradition that I can hardly believe the rest of the globe hasn't jumped on the groundhog bandwagon. For some reason known only to me, I look forward to Groundhog Day from January on. Maybe because my first boyfriend's birthday was on Groundhog Day, but that is a different matter entirely.

So, have I mentioned that we live in a house we can ill-afford, but we do happen to have 10ish acres of land that belong to us and us alone. And, currently, on that 10ish acres of land resides our very own GROUNDHOG! who has set up residence in a small brushpile at the edge of our back yard. As you might imagine, the very existence of this groundhog set the wheels a-turnin' in mah mind. And here is what I came up with:

Enough of this Punxsutawney crap already. The groundhog has taken up squatters' rights with us now for at least a year, so I figure that he/she (we haven't determined the sex of the groundhog) owes us some entertainment. So, the kids (must note that I was mildly surprised that the public school is failing dismally in its Groundhog Education, neither kid knows shit about this day of days) and I would happily ensconce ourselves upon the deck (well beyond the reach of an irritated groundhog) and dh (he's on his own) could Gently roust out the groundhog and we could determine FOR OURSELVES whether said hog saw or did not see his/her shadow. But alas, T promptly vetoed this plan because of a) the groundhog wouldn't care for it one little bit; b) groundhogs can be mean; and c) groundhogs can have rabies. I do not know if I believe him on either of those last two counts, I think he may just be Lazy.

While I realize that this is probably for the best, I still can't help but feel a little sad--yet another instance of how I excel in the creative development phase but suck at the actual execution. Wouldn't it have been fabulous to have had our own Groundhog Day celebration (okay, so maybe the hog would've disagreed)? And so, that is how we at Casa Cystah again have to take Punxsutawney Phil's word WRT length of winter this year.

Sigh. Life is full of these little disappointments.

Herding Cats: A Scene From Our Bedroom

2005-01-26T04:32:00.000-06:00

When we first started dating, my husband possessed what you might call wiry in physique. Seriously, the man wore pants with like a 29 inch waist. It was pathetic, if you ask me because he eats like a hog and never had to worry about the existence of fat rolls or, say, the number of calories consumed vs. exercise output, etc. So naturally, I've always been the fatter one in our relationship and I'm completely comfortable in that role. After my surgery, one might say we are more comparable in size. And since T is approaching 40, his formerly super-speedy metabolism is slowing down, and since I can have a tendency towards spitefulness, I can't help but take some small amount of satisfaction in that. Anyway, there has been a slight shift of power in this area of our relationship. We are continuing to find equilibrium here, sometimes with humorous results, sometimes with hurt feelings, sometimes with both.

And so here is a sampling of dialogue that recently occurred in our bedroom:

T & I, in our bedroom, changing into our pajamas.

T: (showing me his stomach in profile) "I'm getting fat. Look at these pants. I'm as big around as I am tall. "

Me: "Let's go on a diet! No really, we need to eat more fruits and vegetables! More whole foods! Don't you think? Huh? Huh?"

T: "Mehhhhhhh . . . "

Me: "Well, I think we should. If you get any fatter, you might grow man bosoms. That wouldn't be good."

T: (defensive now) "So, what are you saying? You think I'm turning into a titty farm here?"

Me: "That's not what I said at all. We're being proactive to try to prevent the titty farm. You know, an ounce of prevention being better than a double-D cup of cure and all . . . "

N: (just now zooming in from downstairs to interrupt our conversation, at full speed and top volume) "WOOHOO! A Kitty Farm! A Kitty Farm! We're gonna have a Kitty Farm! Yay for Kitty Farm! WOOHOO!"

T: (increasingly defensive, as man bosoms is a deep-seated fear he has) "N, that's not appropriate, stop it. Stop it right now."

Me: (have now relocated bathroom, the better to choke back laughter) "Hhhwwwrrrrkkkkkk . . . "

N: (whispering under breath, to a congo rhythm in his head) "Daddy is a farMER, Daddy is a farMER, Daddy is a farMER, Daddy is a farMER."

Me: (now collapsed in bathroom, totally paralyzed by hysteria yet still managing some degree of fear WRT dust bunnies congregated on tile floor.)

These are the days, man, these are the days.

Mother-Out-Law

2005-01-24T16:45:00.000-06:00

Some people have a mother-in-law, but I reject that term in favor of mother-out-law, which I feel is much more descriptive of the relationship that I have with said individual. Our relationship is made especially mucky since we disagree on most things. Now, I must note that I am quite capable of "agreeing to disagree". In fact, my mother and I have forged quite a close relationship based on that very concept. However, my MOL prides herself on "speaking her mind." It's obvious to the most casual observer that it's never occurred to my MOL that all of us would like to "speak" our minds. The downside to "speaking one's mind" ad nauseum is that it pisses other people off to no end. Since angst with her keeps cropping up in my life lately, I have to get at least some of this out of my system, yo. So, without further ado, I present to you:

Favorite Quotes from my Mother Out Law

"Laurie, you just are incapable of understanding some things since you'll never be a mother" ~ circa 1997, the height of my infertility treatments

"A came from China, N came from Korea, and C, well he came from God." ~ a line she frequently likes to trot out when introducing my kids, when she can remember what countries I adopted the first two from, anyway.

"Well, no one is going to listen to Laurie, since she's never satisfied with anything anyway."

"They couldn't get pregnant because Laurie was just so big so she finally lost her weight and they just got pregnant all of a sudden. But I always knew the infertility was her fault, yes I always knew it."

"You know, you should consider having the contractor install more lights in your bathroom, so, you know, your eye makeup won't be so heavy." ~ just to note, MOL is rather, ahem, uptight about makeup, but no one has ever accused me of slathering on the war paint, by any means. ~~How heavy can one coat of mascara be?~~ Trust me on this.

"N just looked deformed when he was a baby, what with all that hair and how hugely fat he was" Me: "I think N was a beautiful baby." MOL: "NO, he looked deformed. I was surprised there wasn't something wrong with him."

Now, what she says is not to be out done by the things that she forgot that she wasn't supposed to say. For example, although she knows that I'm "in the closet" about my gastric bypass, she (early on) "forgot" that fact. And, since she "forgot" once, she now feels that she should be able to talk about it all the time, to whomever she wants. Because, you know, she forgot so why the hell should she remember now. And let's not fail to mention about how she forgot that we weren't telling people about my pregnancy with C during the first trimester. In fact, she got so mad that we weren't telling people that she forgot and accidentally told the entire family. And when I say accidentally, I mean, ~~out of spitefulness~~ on fucking purpose.

Gah, just typing this list has caused me to consume nearly half of an entire box of Girl Scout Peanut Butter Patties (which were called Tagalongs when I was a wee Brownie, but that is a story for another time). My friend Kathy (who has a MIL who rocks) says that this is teaching me lots of good lessons, for when I myself will be a mother-in-law and so now I will be all the better for it.

Whatever.

Sometimes, I forget

2005-01-14T16:46:00.000-06:00

As you might imagine, I (from time to time) make fun of people who say things that I think are whacked. But listen up all you hipper adoptive parents: feel free to make fun of me now.

I participate in several online adoption forums and I lurk on gabillions more. And I frequently hear parents (those of blended with adoptive kids and bio kids families) profess, "Oh, yeah, five of my twenty kids are adopted, but I keep forgetting which ones . . . " Sure, the sentiment is right enough (love all your kids equally, you're blessed to have 'em, however ya got 'em), but the saying is just so damn cheesy. Like anyone would really forget that. So I've always thought people who spouted off that particular saying were a little whacked in the head. But I won't be making fun of this particular subset of adoptive parents anytime soon, for reasons which will soon be made clear.

On a somewhat-related-yet-more-somber note, I often (during my bad parenting moments) have a fleeting "bad thought" of "Oh A's (or N's, depending on the situation) birthparents would be disappointed in me". This "bad thought" makes me feel not so good about myself, for just a bit, anyway. For example, when I let A and N watch two Spongebobs in a row (under the guise of quiet time) or when I try to pass off frozen pizza and applesauce as a well-balanced lunch for more than two consecutive days? Then the "bad thought" makes me feel oh-so sickish with guilt. Because I am quite sure that if I were a birth parent, I would totally expect that my children would be happily ensconced in a serene home with no television whatsoever, a wide variety of age-appropriate, intellectually stimulating craft activities, and a hot home-cooked meal always at the ready.

So anywho, back to my point.

Last night, as I was letting the baby gorge himself on a fudge-stripe cookie (because baby loves fudge-stripe cookies, it is sooooo cute, really it is) instead of the organic "chicken, brown rice, and carrots" dinner that I had ~~prepared~~ bought & nuked for him, the "bad thought" flashed through my head: "C's birthmother would be soooooo disappointed in me."

But HA! I am such a dumbass for thinking that bad thought just at that time! Because, um, I am C's only mother (unless he was switched at birth, which I am reasonably certain he was not)! This kid has no birthmother mentally looming over my shoulder, wagging her imaginary head in disappointment! Let the good times roll!

And there you have it: the reason why I can no longer make fun of those people who say "but I can't remember which kids are adopted". Hell, I may even go around saying it myself now. You just never can tell about me.

Reason #43438 why adopting a Korean boy was a good thing for me

2005-01-12T14:35:00.000-06:00

When wrapping Christmas presents with his dad, N notices that my gifts (which included this thing of beauty which I love) are vastly outnumbered by his own gifts, not to mention the gifts for A and C. Upon this realization, I overhear N solemnly say to dh, "Daddy, this is really not good. Momma don't have so many presents, and my momma? she likes lots of presents."

Awwwww . . . That little boy knows me so well, doesn't he? What a little goofball he is. God, but I love this kid.

Yeah, I know that I got soooooo lucky in the kids department.

Laurie Held Hostage

2005-01-07T16:57:00.000-06:00

Gah.

Weather? Shitty. Roads? Icy. Electrical poles/wires (and their ensuing comforts of heat & hot water)? Down. Schools? Closed. Back? Out. Children? Bored, cranky, and cold. My mind? Shot to hell.

Jesus gay, being trapped in the house with the children for two long days with no electricity to a) heat us up and b) numb our brains with the healing powers of television has got to be some strange form of torture. I've tried to blog coherently, but my brain circuits keep misfiring or short-circuiting or some shit like that. I'd love to sarcastically tear into that bitch from the electric company or moan about our neighbors who wouldn't stop calling us to see if our power had been restored (fuck, no, how many times do I have to tell you?), but I ain't can't string no sentences together good.

Plus, my back is out. Way way way out. And there's a lump back there, where there was no lump before. My husband (who has no medical degree, google or otherwise) suggests that it is an ectopic alien baby. So then I was compelled asked if he could accept the alien baby once it's born and raise it as his own. He was non-commital, probably planning to sell our story to the Weekly World News and mentally spending money from that. Which kind of pisses me off, because he would totally expect me to raise his alien baby, if our situations were reversed, you know he would.

And also, I am feeling guilt for forgetting to pay the phone bill. I mean, I have reallyreallyreally forgotten it good this time. Please don't shut off our service, Ma Bell, we really do love you, it's just that I forgot. I promise to make good.

And finally an observation: If a baby claps and squeals with unabashed glee for a whole goddamned hour because the television is finally BACK ON, then that baby is probably watching too much tv.

Wish list

2005-01-04T09:45:00.000-06:00

I wish that, upon my return from winter vacation, I could tell you the following things:

My visit with my ILs was a joyous occasion that did not result in my left eyeball threatening to explode out of my head from the insanity and a splendid time was had by all
The Christmas decorations are all removed from our living quarters and safely packed away in acid-free paper
The baby is no longer wearing his Santa Baby bib on a regular basis
The baby has socks that a) fit around his massive calves and b) stay on his chunky monkey feet
The house received a thorough top-to-bottom cleaning, in view of all this time off from work, and each room is now in a state of completely sanitized serenity
The children did not leave the Jeep dvd player on and run the motherfucking battery completely and thoroughly out of go-juice
I consumed absolutely no Cheetos during the holiday season

But to blatantly, outrageously lie like that to you, my dear readers?

That would just be plain wrong. And I have resolved not to lie in the new year. Oh wait, no I didn't. I just carefully considered that option. I really just resolved to lie less. I mean, really. You can't just not lie at all. That would just be asking for trouble. And I never ask for trouble. Mostly.

Happy New Year everyone, even if it is a smidgen late. I wish you all the best in 2005!

Another unsettling realization

2004-12-22T16:11:00.000-06:00

Upon making a regular trip to our local job service in my seemingly neverending quest for improved employment, a vague sense of unpleasantness comes over me. It takes about 37 minutes for the vague sense to carmelize into an actual thought (and that carmelization time is an improvement for me, of late). And the actual, concrete thought is:

My job prospects would seemingly be much brighter if I were an OTR truck driver. Seriously, there are tons of motherfucking job opportunities for those lucky sons of bitches. Why in the hell didn't I just save all that college tuition money and buy myself a big rig?

Fuck. I'm always a day late and a dollar short. Or something like that.

Two of hearts

2004-12-21T10:55:00.000-06:00

Maybe the man really is my soulmate, is my thinking. No one is more shocked than I am, gentle reader.

Due to recent events, I can't help but feel a wee bit guilty for lo those many times I've called my husband the following (pet) names: jackass, dumb ass, pain in the ass, assclown, and last but not least, asshole.

Because when I emailed my husband this glorious news, he immediately phones me (bookworm, big Harry Potter fan) to say that he (not bookworm, not Harry Potter fan) already heard that little gem on the radio. And also, he says he then immediately thought of me, his beloved. In fact, says this man I married, he has already went to Amazon to pre-order this item, just for me, but alas it's not listed as available yet.

Fuck! I mean really! Can you stand it? Isn't that just the living end? So you see why I'm now thinking that maybe we really are soulmates! Maybe I don't take back my marriage vows!

I haven't been this turned on in weeks. WEEKS! I tell you.

Maybe he will get that blowjob he's been campaigning for, after all. Surely this deserves one, if ever anything did.

And God bless us, every one.

By way of explanation

2004-12-20T10:38:00.000-06:00

Today is casual day at work. I love casual day. I try not to do too much actual work on those days, by the way.

However.

If you see me in real life today, you might think, "Hmmm, Laurie, those jeans are just a smidgen snug. That's not your usual." And if you thought that, gentle reader, you would, indeedy, be correct! But do not fear, internet. I have not lost my mind and started wearing my "going out" clothes to work. No, that has not happened. Yet, anyway. The perfectly logical reason that I am wearing jeans-a-smidgen-snug to work is to remind myself to just keep walking just keep walking just keep walking past all the goddamned Christmas candy bounty that has infiltrated our office.

It's my hope that the threat of these jeans surpassing smidgen-snug status and moving into too-fucking-tight status will help keep me on the straight and narrow. Desperate times, and all that, blah, blah, blah.

America's Next Top Couch Potato

2004-12-15T16:52:00.000-06:00

I owe some people an apology.

And so begins our tale of how sin creeps in, just like that Baptist minister at youth camp warned me about.

Saturday dawned a dampish gray morning in the Casa de Cystah. The only bright spot was that A and N had went to Nanny & Pop's to help put up their Christmas tree, so thusly C and I were enjoying some lazy time alone. I had grandiose plans to disinfect and sanitize the disaster area formerly known as our master bathroom. But first I slept in. And then C was cranky. And then people wouldn't stop calling me on the phone and asking questions that I couldn't answer. And then I couldn't decide on what to have for lunch. So I turned on the fireplace for some warmth (did I mention it was damp outside?), and then all of a sudden, the bathroom defunk-ifying plans completely fell by wayside. I somehow ended up on the couch wrapped in a blanket, with a full bag of Cheetos by my side, a peacefully sleeping baby on my lap and the remote control in my hand.

I rarely, if ever, have sole custody of the remote control.

Somehow that, in turn, led to VH1 and the America's Next Top Model marathon.

And before I knew what the fuck had happened, it be dark outside, the cheetos bag was empty, and the baby? he be both covered in orange-y cheeto dust and starved, since we'd been all warm and toasty and he'd taken a ginormous nap whilst I had watched the entire goddamned season of America's Next Top Model. It was like crack. Only on TV. And it didn't require smoking. Or a pipe. Or a dealer. And it was so, so good. My God, who knew? Who Knew?

Egads, I shudder to admit that it took me awhile to shake off the stupor and care for my own infant, gentle reader. That demon show had me in its spell, I tell you. Finally, I did manage to pull myself together and had stopped muttering comments like "Fucking know-it-all Yaya, hate her." and "Goddamn you, Ann for mutilating that poor bulimic girl's brownies." before the older two children came home. And I sooooo lied when they asked what happened to the new bag of cheetos (and here I exhibit another shining example of bad motherhood).

And that's not even the worst part!

No!

The worst part is that I don't have UPN! I'm going to miss the season finale! God, please let someone have pity on my poor soul and tell me who the winner is?

So, all you America's Next Top Model fans that I have mocked (both to your face and behind your back) over the past months? I totally take it all back. Totally. You were right, I was wrong.

Now, I've got to go try to salvage some of my dignity by watching I don't know, The History Channel or Discovery Times, or maybe reading the dictionary, or alphabetizing my spices.

Mad About Plaid

2004-12-14T16:55:00.000-06:00

So, I have these plaid flannel pants. I think you are probably familiar with the type I'm referring to. Some people might refer to them as "pajama pants", but I find that term severely and unnecessarily limiting. I mean, it clearly excludes both daytime and in-public usage of said pants. Anyway. Mine are blue plaid. I bought them after my gastric bypass, and was v. proud of them as they were one of the first "non-plus-size" items that I own. Still, they are an extra-large (not to be confused with 1X, which is bigger) and they are too big. In addition to being too big, they are also warm, soft, snuggly, non-restrictive, figure-flattering and all around comfortable in general. In fact, if these pants were an actor? they'd win an Oscar. Really. Overall, though their bigness is only surpassed by their comfortableness.

This might illuminate just how big they are:

DH: "I didn't know you still had those pants. I thought you sold all your too big stuff at the yard sale this summer."

Me: "I did sell the big stuff. These are still good."

DH: "Ummmm, but aren't those from before your surgery? They're really old, they've got to be from before your surgery. Aren't they from before your surgery?"

Me: "No." (fat girl on the inside is mentally cringing, cause I was so much bigger before surgery)

DH: "Wasn't the last time I saw you wearing those, ah, weren't you like at least 8 months pregnant? And, they were baggy then."

Me: "I wouldn'tve called them baggy then. When I was pregnant, they didn't have the comfortable roominess that they do now. I mean, really. Besides, they're flannel. Flannel gets gets better with age. You can't just throw that aged flannel goodness away. God, what is your point?"

DH:

Me:

Thus, we are at an impasse.

But still.

There will be no compromise. I flatly refuse to take this kind of talk from a man who happily wears a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and the pocket torn off. That's not even in the same league as roomy pants. Please. At least I have some standards. The pants will stay, I tell you. He will not win this battle, as God is my witness.

In which I don't feel hip, but definitely feel square

2004-12-09T14:30:00.000-06:00

So sometimes, like, I have a weensy bit of disbelief that this is, like, my life? I always imagined that somehow I'd maintain my sense of hip & trendy, even though I was a mother. And I have worked at it, man. Hey--I wear low-rise jeans, I'll have you know. And even thong underwear when the situation warrants. My chest is lifted, supported, etc. by the best Victoria's Secret has to offer. Unlike my grandmother (who was permanently bonded to her tube of Revlon's Wine With Roses), I carefully observe and heed trends in lipstick/gloss colors/formulations. And you know I can curse with the best of 'em. See, I sound hip & trendy, don't I? Don't I?

Then yesterday morning, I had me a small bit of a startling realization.

There I was parked in my SUV (the only redeeming qualities of which are the redness and the sunroof, and which is much more "utilitarian" than "sport" in my world) in the Parent Pick-Up Lane (don't know why they call it that 'cause there is no "picking up" going on of children or parents, we are in fact "dropping off" children only). I am, in fact, the only passenger in the front seat of said vehicle, much in same manner of lowly-paid/under-valued chauffeurthe children safely ensconced in their straight-jackets, er, carseats in the back. Having reluctantly relinquished control of CD player to said passengers (and as such am no longer dj even in my own car) and therefore we are currently rocking out to Funkytown as crooned by Lipps Inc. Thankyouverymuch makers of Shrek 2 for reviving that gem.

And that is the where/whyfores of how I reached to the rather belated conclusion that, despite my Best Efforts and Thong Panties (and the best efforts of thong panties), I am hip and trendy no more. So I get to feeling a bit hot and sickish.

In mid won't-you-take-me-to, I ponder how Huey Lewis didn't know what the fuck he was talking about with that whole Hip to be Square propaganda. In fact, I now hypothesize that Huey probably penned those lyrics whilst waiting in his own parent pick-up line, in attempt to make his own self feel better. Whatever. Subsequently, spend small amount of time wondering how I can ever rectify these circumstances. Promptly realize there is no help to be had. Possibly that is first and only efficient move of the day.

And so, decide to accept inevitable fate and begin rocking out with children before Funkytown is over. If you can't beat 'em blah blah blah. Song is nothing if not catchy.

I will now be pulling my jeans all the way up to my waist now, as a symbol that I have finally accepted the reality of my situation. I was always a little edgy about the exact location of my waist band in relation to my ass crack anyway. I may be square, but at least I can have a measure of certainty that my ass crack is safe and secure.

So I guess it's not all bad.

I can kiss away your pain . . . or not

2004-12-07T14:10:00.000-06:00

Rest easy, gentle reader, crisis has been averted.

NotSoFavoriteCoWorker and spouse have decided to stay together, when times are good or bad, happy or sad (self could not help channeling Tina Turner for brief moment). Or maybe they're just staying together for the time being. Or, whichever comes first. Definitely something like that. So there will be no messy, bitter divorce and the ensuing dramatic aftermath, and hopefully soon, NSFCW will be again empowered to answer her own goddamned office phone.

You know what that means don't you?

CHRISTMAS HAS BEEN SAVED!

Aaaah . . . Close, but no cookie.

No, really: It means that NSFCW must listen to all Enrique, all the time. Loudly. And longly. And longingly. And singing along with. No, I do not know why this is their "breaking up is hard to do" anthem, but trust me. It. Is. Furthermore, it's harder to cope with all Enrique/all the fucking time if one decides to forgo one's lunch beer. Learn from my mistakes . . .

God, but this is almost as good as junior high, I swear it.

On the bright side, the internet has just notified me that a MOTO RAZR V3 is Mine . . . Free, so long as I Claim It.

Constipation of the Blog, Diarrhea of the IM

2004-12-06T14:25:00.000-06:00

God, internet but I've missed you. I have felt so stifled lately. There's nothing can be done for it. 'Tis the Season(al Affective Disorder) and all that.

The following things are happening:

the annual holiday in-law angst. Fuck, but it's a pain in my ass (HEE! that pun wasn't even intended but have decided to leave it). Oh wait, here's an email from my SIL, Katy (or, as I mentally {mostly mentally} refer to her, Catty). I'm going to copy and paste it so I can share it with you here.

Be right back, promise.

Okay, here it is, comments in brackets are mine, as you might've guessed:

Laurie: [note use of colon, hate that]This year, Mom's [this is referring to my MIL, btw] Christmas celebration WILL [precious little dictator, bless her fucking heart]be on Christmas morning. This is when we will ALL be celebrating the holiday together. We expect you to be there bright and early [expecting and getting are two different things]. Thanks, Katy

A little background is: the above is our invitation. The first we've heard. Like we might not have other plans for a major holiday that's occurring in a mere three weeks or anything freaky like that. And dh doesn't want to cause a fuss. So we will most certainly have our holiday plans dictated to us just in this manner. Shit like this? Totally stifles my creativity. I can't even find the humor in it, knowing that I have to endure intensive in-law exposure. Certainly, I've considered coping in the manner of my brother-in-law, who manages to escape most of the pissing match/tomfoolery/dysFUNction by sequestering himself in the guest bedroom, consuming large amounts of homemade noodles, mashed potatoes, and Crown (I know), but there's only one spare bedroom there, and I don't really want to share quality time with him, either.

Plus, (Not-So)Favorite Co-Worker (NSFCW) is currently getting a divorce, definitely, maybe. This requires her (and me, by default) to listen to the blues and old country & western tunes, with an occasional segue to Enrique Eglesias, all at top volume. And singing along with. Like goddamned karaoke without some liquor to take the edge off the awful painfulness and make it fun. The definite potential divorce possibility also renders her incapable of answering her phone, except in cases of personal calls, which are answered immediately. Before you think I'm a total heartless bitch, keep in mind that this is at least the fifth time NSFCW has been "getting divorced" in the 2 years we have worked together. Yeah. One of those kind.

Furthermore, there has been Way Too Much Work come across my desk this holiday season. Much more work than I like to complete Prior To The Holidays. Prior to the holidays, I like to do my Christmas shopping online and address Christmas cards and compose my Christmas list and consume alcoholic beverages to get me in the mood, er, spirit of the season, and eat cheese ball. Simultaneously. In a drunken stupor.

And also, N recently tried to burn our house down using our own personal toaster against by char-toasting the world's smallest piece of bread (decided against auctioning this smallest piece of arson bread on ebay. Sorry). Yes, we try to supervise him. Who knew he'd been carrying that bread around in his pocket like that? WHO KNEW??? Good thing that damn little future felon is so adorable.

There's been much IMing of these events to my friends in the computer, but it's mostly incoherent stuff, filled with outrage, disgust, rampant usage of expletives and lots of feeling sorry for myself. And yeah, sometimes I do use my IM sessions to jumpstart a blog entry, but 2343 IMs that consist of "Fuck, shit, piss, cocksucker!!!! What am I going to do??? Help me! HELP ME GODDAMNIT!!!" ??? I mean, come on--what kind of blog material is that?

Say what?

It's better than my usual blog material??

Oh. Okay, then. (said in small humble voice)

Conceit or laziness? I just can't decide . . .

2004-11-24T11:05:00.000-06:00

Dear Shania Twain,

Let's just cut the bullshit (you=singer, blah blah blah, sometimes fairly okay; me=sometimes lukewarmish fan, blah, blah, blah although have admittedly never actually purchased any of your albums but don't always change the station when one of your songs is on, blah blah blah) and get straight to the point.

I think it's weird that when you record songs as a duet, that you then re-record them either by yourself (as in that cavity-causing classic, From This Moment) or with someone else (a la that newish better-than-cheddar hit{?} Party for Two). Regarding the former: Was Bryan White really so intrusive and/or off-key? Or was his boyish presence just deemed not worthy? What? WHAT? I really want to know. Really. And also regarding the latter: For the record, I do like Mark McGrath as much as the next girl, but I must point out that I really don't see Billy Currington as so richly steeped in country & western goodness. I think he could've crossed over just fine. For those who are, you know, into that sort of crossover shit. Or did Billy think he was too good for that? Is it really Billy's own fault? The dual-duet version is no fault of your own?

So I just don't understand the whole dual-version thing. Oh wait. Just had possible epiphany that could cancel out this entire post: Are we maybe kindred spirits and these dual-duet-versions are just a way to get two album songs for one, thereby reducing amount of work (singing, in your personal situation) that is actually done but creating illusion of full workload? If so, well then, I totally can endorse that.

Sincerely your possible kindred spirit or your mostly bemused sorta-sometimes listener-to-your-music,

Laurie

ps Don't you get cold in those belly shirts all the time, especially with all that fake wind blowing through your hair? Or, does thinking warm "Castle in Switzerland" thoughts get you through? Or, is all that shivering the key to a bunny-rabbit-speedy-quick metabolism?

'Tis better to give than receive, or that's what I've been told anyway

2004-11-19T14:59:00.000-06:00

Alternatively titled, I am a greedy, self-centered bitch

Each year, dh asks for my Christmas list. Yeah, it's kind of nostalgic, like when I was a greedy child writing a letter to santa, rather than a greedy adult emailing my wants to my dh. But it also kind of pisses me off that the man lives with me every goddamned day and still seems completely thunderstruck by the items on my list. I mean, like he totally has no clue the stuff I like. And for some reason that pisses me off while I am making a list of potential gifts for myself. And don't say that I should just not make a list and see what he comes up with because I've been down that road and there are no fucking presents at the end of it. Yes, you read that right. If I don't tell him exactly what to buy, then he will not buy me anyfuckingthing. So now you better understand why the whole Christmas list pisses me off, yes? Yes. Yes? Good.

I know, I am such a bitch. I try to work through this on my own time. This year, for something completely different, I thought I'd share with you:

3 things that aren't on my Christmas list

Can we talk about this? Oh, we can? All right, then. Good. Now, I know the first thing that comes to mind is: "wow, what an amazing job of totally obliviating the nipples through airbrushing" so as not to offend the delicate sensibilities of those of us perusing the Vicky's Secret catty. Yes, the airbrushing is premium quality, that stuff. Let's disregard the fact that the only place I could wear this would be the stripper pole. Somehow, I just can't see the girls hanging out in this little gem, pun intended. They're rather free-form, since weight loss and pregnancy. It just wouldn't be pretty. So I don't want this at all. So don't go to any trouble on my account, k?

And we should talk about this, too? Because I don't want this either. For reasons that I can't articulate well at all because of the disgusting mental images conjured up by the concept of a 10-year-old grilled cheese. Other random musings inspired by decade-old grilled cheese--Doesn't she wonder what other potential images could've been embedded in the rich tapestry of half-sandwich she ate? And must note the amazing preservative properties of plastic box/cotton balls. Look out seal-a-meal.

And also we need to spend a moment on this. I sooooo don't desire monogrammed crapper paper. Because you just know that DH would totally wipe his ass with my designated paper, which would just cause a stupid fight and for what? And what of that nagging fear of monogram ink-streaks on my ass? I mean, sure the shit is gone, but what if traces of ink remain? What good is that? So again, not on my list.

I am so hard to buy for. I am sure, gentle reader, that you can see why I have to make the list. What's that you say? You say you're thinking that you can't believe that anyone buys me anything at all since I'm such a whiney ungrateful wretch? Oh.

Life is like a motherfucking box of chocolates

2004-11-16T08:56:00.000-06:00

The View, spanning three generations

So after I read this and this, I thought:

"Life is not fucking fair."

and:

"What the Fuck, Chuck?!"

respectively.

My 6 year old daughter A, on the other hand, (still smarting a bit from the sting of not being permitted to name baby C) thought:

"When is Granny going to grow twins in her tummy?"

because:

"She will definitely let me name them both."

My 56-year-old mother thought:

"No goddamned way."

Quality television

2004-11-15T15:10:00.000-06:00

So my friend Cyn (who used to be my friend IRL, til she moved away and now lives in my computer. Strangely enough, we talk more this way . . . ) and I were just this minute now having an IM session and I'm like all excited 'cause I recently saw the new freaks listing, um I mean cast, of Surreal Life 4.

And then Cyn reveals that she is off television.

Say what? That's crazy talk.

Well, that's a conversation stopper right there, folks. I mean, none of my friends (those in real life or those in the computer) are off television. Cyn! Say it isn't so!

So being the good wife that I am, I immediately call dh and I bring up the possibility of cutting our television umbilical cord. As you might imagine, he is properly horrified at the mere suggestion. Being off television just sounds way too high class or intellectual or something for dh and I. It's something we might admire from afar (and really, I kind of do Admire It), but no fucking way would we wanna live there, for God's sake. Really--we have no lives of our own. We must live vicariously through the freak shows that are beamed to us through the idiot box.

We love idiot box . . .

I shudder to think that Cyn is suffering without the following Things That Make Life Bearable:

Bands Reunited
American Chopper
HGTV in general, and Curb Appeal in particular (thank the directv gods you are back, Rick Spence, you hunk of funkyfreshness)
Various special televised offerings involving gender ambiguity, reassignment, frustrations with, etc.
The Critical Hour (okay, I hate this, but dh loves it and I must admit that it provides a nice balance to my google medical knowledge)

Can you imagine? What do she and her husband talk about if not the following topics:

Sex, to have or not to have, quality of, lack thereof, planning for
Bands, ones we miss, how much ones have went down hill, freaks resulting from thereof
Bikes, ones I will never ride, Paul Sr., Paul Jr., Mikey, Vinnie angst involving the aforementioned combined with too much money and too much mouth
Sex, quality of, lack thereof, planning for, new techniques mentioned in magazines or online or via some other communication methods
Shit that needs done around the house
Medical procedures that would result in the feeling that we would rather be shot dead than have to endure
Sex, to have or not to have, quality of, recent (or not so) occurences of, planning for, sloppiness and/or shoddiness or lack of sloppiness/shoddiness in current birth control practices

Maybe this is working for Cyn and her husband, but as you can see, gentle reader, being off television would put a serious damper on the discussion of current events at Casa Cystah. We can't have that now, can we? Can We?

No. We Just Can't.

Whew. Now then. I'm going to go update our cable options. Maybe order a pay-per-view. Maybe even a pay-per-view porn, thereby combining dh's two favorite pastimes of tv and sex.

Shit, I am such a good wife.

The P! True Pregnancy After WLS story

2004-11-08T16:50:00.000-06:00

Everywhere I go . . .
People wanna know . . .
'Bout pregnancy after weight loss surgery. . .
So I tell them:

And just when you were thinking I don't keep my promises. Yes, I did remember that I'd promised this.

So, how long between your surgery and your pregnancy, anyway?
I had roux en y gastric bypass on October 15, 2002. I found out that I was pregnant in late September 2003. So, not quite a year between the two. Weight-wise (for those of you who measure "in-between" in poundage increments), I weighed about half of what I did when I had surgery. So, in other words, I was down about 150 lbs.

Did you get knocked-up on purpose, or was it one of those post-surgery hormones-gone-wild like I read 'bout with gastric bypass? Or, your malabsorption fucking with your birth control pills? Or quite simply a Festivus miracle?
Naturally, since post-wls email groups are always chatting on (and on and on and on . . . ) about those Surprise! pregnancies after wls, I couldn't help but wonder about it (who the hell could not?). But the truth is, I was just sloppy with my birth control, which is something that pre-surgery I could always get away with. Immediately following my surgery though, I was ultra-strict with the birth control, really I was quite devout. But that is not my norm and I soon returned to my slovenly ways, as I am so totally unaccustomed to such disciplined birth control practices after marriage. Honestly, since finding out I had pcos, I've been fast and loose with the birth control So Much that I never gave a thought to it catching up to me. Or, if I ever did, those were way back in the day and I've completely forgotten that I had them. So, even though the pregnancy was a surprise, it wouldn't have been a surprise to a normal person and even though it was unexpected, we were certainly happy. I mean, come on, I am a recovering infertile, after all. And I naturally love to pee on sticks.

So, I've heard that after gastric bypass, you hardly gain any weight while pregnant and afterwards, the weight just melts off you like magic. So . . . did ya? Did Ya? Did you lose weight while you were pregnant?
I gained loads of weight while pregnant, much like a pig being fattened for the slaughter, somewhere in the neighborhood of 40lbs or so. Keep in mind this is in sharp, sharp, oh-so-sharp contrast to the rest of those bitches on the pregnant after rny chat room who leave pregnancy weighing at least 62 lbs less than before. And, God, yes, it was disheartening to see the scale rapidly climbing back The Bad Way, since I'd become so used to seeing it slide down The Good Way. And especially since those aforementioned bitches had assured me that weight gain just wouldn't happen. Seriously though, that kinda exaggerates the amoung of my angst over my pregnancy weight gain. In the moment, I was way too totally wrapped up in the baby-growing and dead baby thoughts to obsess much over my pregnancy weight. Dr. W said that my weight gain was totally fine, so he was my enabler in this instance. Plus, there were lots times I could hardly keep anything down (both wls and the pg were causes of this) and if I didn't eat, I got incredibly light-headed, and like only 5 different things would stay in my pouch (aka stomach for those non-wls people). And at least 1 of those things was named pizza. So. Therefore. When only 5 things will stay in your pouch and one of them is pizza, you can only worry about weight gain so much, ya know? Cletus the Fetus had to eat sumpthin'.

Did you have an easier pregnancy/do you think your pregnancy was easier since you weighed less?

Hell yeah. Even though at the end, my pregnancy went to hell in a handbasket, I really never felt bad bad. I think I was always used to feeling "bad" because of my obesity and I had felt "bad" because of the obesity for so fucking long, that pregnancy complaints just never touched that level of bad-ness. Which may have led to the delay of my HELLP syndrome diagnosis. I totally believe that if I had weighed nearly 300 lbs (like back in the old days), that pre-eclampsia/HELLP syndrome would've found me much earlier. At least I was almost at term and in otherwise good health when the bad shit started.

Good things about wls and pregnancy?

Getting pregnant at all, ever, in the first place! Starting pregnancy with no blood-pressure or blood-sugar medications and in reasonably good health! Fitting into normal-sized maternity clothes! Actually being able to look pregnant!

Bad things about wls and pregnancy?

Lingering, sneaking, guilty doubts about possibility of malnutrition playing crucial role in causation of pre-eclampsia. Difficulty in choking down horse-pill-sized prenatal vitamins.

How did pregnancy affect your surgery results? Did it "undo" your gastric bypass? Come on, do tell about how those excess pounds just melted right off.

Ahem. Well now. Honestly, to this day I am still up 10 lbs from my prepregnancy weight. I can't seem to shake those, unfuckingfortunately. My pouch is no longer the "enforcer" that it was prepregnancy, but I have no way of knowing if that's due to the pregnancy or simply due to the fact that I'm two years out of surgery. I have to consciously strive to make healthy choices when I eat (much like a so-called normal person) and I'm told that this is a normal stage for someone as far out from surgery as I am. Shit. So. I am currently deluding myself that once Baby C sleeps through the night reliably, I'll feel more like exercising. And that actually may happen. 'Cause I do miss exercising. Well, as much as one can miss exercising. Well, I miss the quiet solitude that a mother gets for a blessed 3-4 times per week when she shuts herself into a room with headphones and a treadmill and suffers through the goddamned exercising.

So, any regrets about the whole shebang?

Well, that's hard to say. I do wish I'd had wls sooner in my life. I wasted too much time being scared of the surgery and suffering with my weight and and and . . . I just wished I'dve done it sooner is all. But that is just my experience with wls, and may not be true for anyone else at all ever. Ideally, I wish that I had been a little further out from surgery before getting knocked up, but a girl who is as unfertile as me kinda has to take any pg she can get, ya know? I wish I'd waited just a bit more, solely to have given my blood pressure time to stabilize. Pre-wls, I'd suffered from high blood pressure. However, since the spring following my surgery, my blood pressure was firmly in the normal range. Would a few more months of being normal bp-wise have prevented my pre-eclampsia? Or is this just more of me trying to blame myself for my body's shitty reproductive tendencies? Who the hell knows.

I feel like I'm forgetting vitally important info here, so let me know if I haven't answered your questions. Really, I do what I can. Really.

The Missionary Position

2004-11-05T13:35:00.000-06:00

My mom stays home with my kids during the day while I'm at work. Yes, I'm very lucky that way. While this is good, the lot of them will, on occasion, suffer from varying amounts of boredom. As result of this, mom and the kids have to take their thrills where they can get 'em, I guess.

Yesterday afternoon, some Mormons came to the door, doing missionary-ing or whatever.

So anyways, it was lunchtime and the Mormons were at the door and I was busy with my lunch beer and playing with the baby, and so I asked my mom to please politely tell them that we weren't interested, thankyouverymuch. In our old neighborhood, Mormons came by all the time and I can shoo them away speedy-quick yet still very nicely, as I understand they mean well and I'd imagine that it's not exactly pleasant, soliciting door to door like that and all. I'm just completely uninterested and as such, am not the best use of their time.

Therefore, I was rather surprised to walk through our front hall and see my mom still talking to the Mormon boys. Or I guess, to be more correct, N was talking to the Mormon boys. This did make me a tad bit concerned. I consider putting down my lunch beer and intervening, but instead I decide to observe this exchange. You see, gentle reader, N used to go to a preschool that was affiliated with a rather strict church. We didn't belong to that particular church but really it was a very good preschool. So from his very own life experiences, this kid knows all about Jesus and such and can stump-preach with the best of them when he feels like. Not that I encourage that sort of thing, mind you, but I don't like to stifle his creativity when it's not resulting in hurt feelings or bodily harm. Anyway, quotes that I have personally heard from this boy's mouth include: "Jesus, he's on my team." and "Jesus, he's my kind of guy." and "Jesus died on the cross. ON THE CROSS!" (he can summon up quite a fervor for a 4 year old, no kidding). So, if N is in the right mood, these boys could very well leave our house as Southern Baptists, is my thinking.

But alas, the results weren't as bad as they could've been, if you ask me. So much for my lunchtime entertainment.

N: "What're you boys here for? I got trains upstairs! Wanna play with trains? Do you like trains?"

Mormons (very kindly): "No, we're here to talk to you about Jesus. Do you know Jesus? Let's talk about Jesus."

N (very disappointed sounding, imagine big heaving sigh): "Oh, just him again. Yeah, whatever, I know all about that guy. Hey! Let me talk to you about Moses instead." (N has an easy-reader story book about Moses that my MIL gave him for Easter last year and lately he's very proud that he can read it all by himself.)

These boys now have excited look, as they realize they've unwittingly stumbled upon a household of heathens! WooHoo! Heathens with a Casual Relationship with Jesus Christ! We're a rare breed, usually found only in captivity! They probably learned all about us at some point in their missionary training. I can tell they're looking forward to saving our sorry asses, I mean, souls.

I'm sure I disappointed them by gently yet firmly sending them away at this point. Sorry guys. There's no sense wasting your time. Later, my own mother further traumatizes me by mentioning that the Mormons have made her realize that it wouldn't hurt for me to keep more young, nice-looking men around the house.

Somedays, coming home for lunch is more trouble than it's worth.

Will Steal For Beer

2004-11-03T03:15:00.000-06:00

Huh.

Now, some people might think that this woman acted out of grief or spite. Me? I'm thinking she was out of cash for beer & smokes and as you know, desperate times call for desperate measures.

The capacity for freakishness never ceases to amaze me.

Heartbreaker, dreammaker, love taker blah blah blah

2004-11-01T14:05:00.000-06:00

Laura Bush keeps calling my house.

No, really. Dude, I mean she's called my house like every day for the past week. It's like she's got me on speed dial or some crazy shit like that.

Now, as I'm a devout liberal, we all know Laura's damn good and well not calling for me. And whenever I answer the phone, her tone gets all cold and impersonal, almost like she's a recording or something.

Call me crazy, but do you think it's possible that she's after DH? 'Cause Laura, believe me, somedays I'd let you have him, but I just wanna make sure you know up front that we are so totally not swapping.

I don't think you're ready for this jelly

2004-11-01T09:11:00.000-06:00

I've went into some extended detail about the sodden mass that is my stomach skin. N has recently shared his own thoughts on the matter.

The time: Morning, early, still mostly dark outside

The mood: Depressed, as have to go to work. Hate work. Hate still-dark morning. Hate mornings, period. Damn mornings and work, separating me from my beloved children, bed, sweatpants, books, and hermit-like tendencies. Fuck.

The place: My closet. Which, I might add, is exceedingly cleaned up by anyone's standards, but exceptionally so for my own.

Extenuating circumstances: I'm still mostly naked, can't decide what to wear to the blasted office, other than what I already have on, i.e. my bra, panties, and trouser socks. Fuck.

Laws broken: N, trespassing in my closet with complete and utter disregard for my morning grouchiness, state of undress and slower mental processes.

Conversation ensuing:

N (all of a sudden, the kid's patting my stomach, whyyyy?): "Whooo! Look at this, it just moves around. All around! Everywhere! This is soooooo Jiggly. It is the Jiggliest. Yes, the Jiggliest stomach I have ever seen! You are jiggly, mama!" This is said with a vast amount of cheerfulness that only a preschooler can muster in the a.m., and we all know that the word jiggly rarely inspires reciprocal cheerfulness in a grown woman.

Me (thinking "fuck", speaking, however, gently but firmly): "Stop it. It's best to not grab other people's stomach skin unless you ask them first. That's not appropriate to just grab people. Are you supposed to be in here? Is your breakfast finished?" (Thereby attempting to employ oft-utilized parenting technique of distraction)

N: That tummy is the best, mama. How did you get it to be so jiggly?

Me: N! Out! Breakfast! Now!

N: I looooove your Jiggly tummy, mom. It is great!

Me (thinking fuck Fuck FUCK!): Thank you very much, sweetheart. Now. get. OUT. this. instant.

Chocolicious

2004-10-29T10:46:00.000-05:00

Okay, now say it like ya mean it:

Chocolate is not the answer to life's problems. Chocolate is not the answer to life's problems. Chocolate is not the answer to life's problems.

The answer to life's problems? Is not chocolate.

One fun-size bag of M & Ms per day is enough for anyone and one fun-size bag per day is all that anyone needs. Put the second fun-size bag down, woman, for the sweet love of God, put the second bag down, please.

And slowly, slooooowwwwwllllyyyy step away from the Halloween candy.

No one ever said I didn't need a 12-step program. No, I'm not kidding.

This Just In: Incest Is NOT Best

2004-10-27T16:10:00.000-05:00

In a stunning revelation, the brilliant mind of he-who-would-be-Senator Alan Keyes brings us this happy thought:

"If we do not know who the mother is, who the father is, without knowing all the brothers and sisters, incest becomes inevitable"

Let's put aside matters of how, in my opinion, this quote trivializes incest and promotes discrimination against adoptees and couples pursuing ART, as well as homosexuals. Ahem.

So. Let's see. Following this twisted thought process (not as easy as one might imagine), I'm thinking that this will also affect anyone (gay or otherwise) who has been "masked from their biological parents", such as parents who utilized donor egg/sperm, or those who chose to pursue closed adoption or international adoption.

You do know what this means, don't you, gentle reader? Well, my friends, it means that in 20 years or so, you'll be reading my blog that's dedicated to my darling little three-headed, cross-eyed, forked-tongued grandchildren, the product of incestuous relationships unwittingly perpetuated by my children, who were masked from their bio sibs/spouses through no fault of their own, thereby wreaking chaos upon the gene pool. Don't fret, I will certainly post pictures of the little dears.

Thank you, Alan Keyes, for drawing this matter to my attention. I will certainly insist upon DNA testing for all future potential spouses of my children and their children and their children's children, just to ensure that no incest occurs.

Bluh.

SnotFace, look what I've done

2004-10-26T08:44:00.000-05:00

SnotFace, look what I've done!

No, really. I think I'm onto something here. Multi-tasking: that is the key to motherhood.

Have I mentioned before that each week A (in 1st grade) brings home a reader from school? No? Well, then, A's teacher sends a new "weekly reader", if you will, home each Monday. None of these are very long, just simple stories about Pig escaping from his pen and Cow feeling sad and Cat going on a trip and Dog not wanting to take a bath. We are to read them each and every night, sign a note attesting to the completion of such, and return note & reader to school on Friday. A loooooves this. She pretty much harasses me from suppertime to bedtime each night: itstimetoreadmyreader canwereadmyreader iwannareadmyreader itstimetoreadmyreader ineedtoreadmyreader canwereadmyreadernow. And on and on and on and on. Don't misunderstand: we are happy that she has this love of reading. In fact, as something of a bookworm myself, I'm thrilled to see her so excited about her reader. Its . . . just . . . that . . . a grown woman can only hear about the exploits of Dog and Cow and Pig and Cat so many times before her brain morphs into a soft, squishy polenta and tries to make an escape out her right ear.

I have no one to blame but myself, really. You'd never know it from this particular entry, but I love to read to kids. When A was an infant, I read to her incessantly. We had all those Boynton on Board books, with Barnyard Dance being one of our favorites. It's just that now I like it when we read our chapter book (currently we're reading about Charlie Bone) instead of the board book stuff. So, I've been worried that baby C isn't getting enough reading-to. Because what with listening to the reader and our nightly chapter-book chapter and the spelling of the spelling words, I'm kind of tired of kiddie lit. And I feel much angst over this. I don't want C to be an illiterate jr high drop out all because his mother was too lazy to read more Boynton on Board.

And then.

And. Then.

This weekend I stumbled upon a solution. It's so simple, can't believe I didn't think of this sooner. A? never can get enough of reading aloud. C? needs more reading-to. I've put A to work reading the board books to C! This has resulted in two happy children and one less stressed-out parent who is not as worried about raising illiterate children. Ah, these are the days, man, these are the days.

I am mothering genius! Now am thinking of starting own parenting magazine, dedicated to lazy parenting methods (not to include things such as bottle-propping, am very much against things of that nature). Am mentally spending profits of magazine, even as you read this.

What I really want to say

2004-10-21T13:15:00.000-05:00

I very much want to blog about bratty acquaintances who use the tragedies of others for their own personal gain and/or to focus attention on themselves. Because, you know it's all about THEMTHEMTHEM. That is what I really want (no, make that need) to get off my chest. I am sorely struggling with not venting about people who attempt to capitalize on catastrophic events to further their own agendas.

But I will refrain. If I started, there's a good chance I would not be able to stop. And I would not want relatives of those involved in a recent tragic event to ever stumble across my blog and ultimately recognize what I was ranting and raving about, thereby resulting in yet more grief in a situation that abounds with endless sadness already. Especially since things are still so fresh, so shocking, and so horrific.

So I'm forcing myself to stay quiet about a particular incident that has shocked me to the core.

I have never excelled at keeping my mouth shut. In the grand scheme of things however, there are others who are struggling ever so much more than me.

Dear Lord, it is so hard. Why do people have to act like such self-centered assholes?

Fun & Games

2004-10-20T09:35:00.000-05:00

So, LAF wrote an excellent commentary on a fabulous new board game offering. Feel free to check it out, as my blog will still be here when you're done with the eye-rolling, bird-flipping, lunch-losing fun of it all. While LAF was incredibly original and creative and thusly made up her own board game, me: not so much. I'm thinking that the good folks at Baby's Birth Benefits mean well, but they seem to be bumbling about under the assumption that all of us are Fertile Myrtles who just glide effortlessly through our glowingly uncomplicated pregnancies. Since LAF's blog has already done a very fine job of disabusing them of that notion, I thought I might could clue them in 'bout a few more of them there game cards they must've overlooked. Now, I'm not all about scaring the pants of the expectant momma-to-be, but if this is to be an educational resource, it is sadly lacking. I just wanna round this offering out a wee tiny smidgen. So naturally, I'm going to be a generous soul and help out in the deficient areas.

Here ya go:

Problem: Dr. can't find baby's heartbeat. Maybe it's too early or maybe you have no baby or maybe the dingo ate your baby. Schedule another ultrasound for next week.

SO: Move back 1 week

Problem: Dr. says your blood pressure is so high, you're at risk of having a seizure. Offers to write letter so others will "be nice to you" (Dr. will definitely take offense to you uttering the word "assclown" at this point, so try not to.) Dr. assvises you to "avoid stress".

SO: LOSE 1 Turn

Problem: At 33 weeks, the Dr. says you're having waaaay too many contractions. Sexual activity could very well throw you into pre-term labor.

SO: Hubby LOSES all turns for the rest of the game. And he'd better not bitch about it, if he knows what's good for him.

Problem: Dr. says that you're still having waaaaay too many contractions at 33 weeks. So keep your fat ass in bed, girl.

SO: Move ahead 3 weeks, oh hell, make that 4 weeks--this baby could come at any time.

Problem: OB says your bp is now way too fucking high. You will need to deliver baby soon.

SO: Move ahead 3 weeks. And hurry up about it, before you have a stroke.

Problem: Perinatologist says your bp is fine, it's your ob that's screwed in the head. You don't need to deliver baby soon.

SO: Move back 3 weeks.

Problem: Oh wait. You've got HELLP syndrome. The baby does really have to come out, like now. No, really. Like in the next 2 hours.

SO: Automatically move to the end of the game.

And what pregnancy board game could be complete without some IUGR babies, babies with birth defects, and preemie babies added to their mix of bundles of joy that are "delivered". Ya know, in the interest of making learning about pregnancy fun and all.

As usual, I'm here to serve.

Like A Virgin

2004-10-15T11:47:00.000-05:00

A few or so nights ago, I was having a night out with the "wives group" from my husband's work (we'll chat about the pc-ness of such a group another time, k?). Anyways, we went to see The Forgotten which was just really average, but that's not the point. Before the movie, that is the important part of this narrative.

So Before the Movie (which I almost referred to as "BM", but that triggers a whole 'nother set of mental pictures entirely), we were chatting about different movies we had or had not seen lately and what we'd seen that we'd recommend or would not recommend. And so, F (who is 17, and is dh's boss's daughter, but also tags along) is with us and I mentioned that I would like to see a particular movie. The thing is I can't even recall what movie I said, because my mind was blown half away by what F said next.

She said,: "Oh Laurie, you don't want to see that. That movie has way too much sex in it for you." Well, as you might imagine, I was rendered fucking speechless.

What the fuck? (no pun intended. really.)

And just how much sex would that be? Any? And how does she know what my sex quota is, anyway? As you might imagine, gentle reader, a girl of my insecurities must now mentally comb through all past wives group meetings, frantically searching my brain files for incidences of prudishness or otherwise sexually-inhibited behavior, or incidences that could have been mistaken for prudishness or otherwise sexually-inhibited behavior. I have never been mistaken for a prude, and therefore I was kind of taken aback, having a 17-year-old be my chaperone and all. I mean, what is the appropriate response in such a situation? "Oh, no. I like sex. Lots and lots of it, the really kinky kind, man." Or, perhaps a more nunnish approach of softly asserting "Yes, sex is bad. Very bad, and I simply won't tolerate it in my movies." Or, maybe something intellectual sounding like, "I can only appreciate sex in my theater when it's central to the story line. I do not particularly care for gratuitous-ness in the least little bit." The response I came up with was laughter, of the hollow, I-don't-get-the-joke variety.

I honestly don't know what to think of this. Now I will feel weird when it is my turn to suggest a movie for our group. Will people be thinking "Oh, that Laurie, she always picks those chick flick movies because she doesn't like sex and all."

Oh well.

Appetite suppressant

2004-10-13T16:31:00.000-05:00

Wanting to tame those nasty carb cravings?

Can't stop yourself from snacking on that pesky Halloween candy?

Are you a junk food junkie?

Get yourself a gander at this and I guarantee you'll lose your appetite.

'Cause see, I was seriously craving me some cheetos, but an eyeful of naked george, and like magic! cheeto craving is completely gone. Ideally, I would like a print of this to put in my kitchen.

The stars are stacked against you girl, get back in bed

2004-10-12T15:40:00.000-05:00

I continue to be a marvel to modern medical science. I'm an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in backsass. The doctors? They just shake their heads in befuddlement and, in some cases, amusement.

I offer you:

The chances of somehow spontaneously, miraculously getting pregnant after adoption? About 2%

The likelihood that a woman with pcos as severe as mine will manage to get pg and stay pg without medical intervention? Not bloody likely.

The probability of an expectant mother developing HELLP syndrome? Lies approximately somewhere abouts between .2 and .6%

The chance of an expectant mother developing HELLP syndrome without previously being diagnosed with pre-eclampsia? Fairly unusual, muses Dr. QuirkyNerd, my perinatologist.

And now, the odds of a reasonably healthy 31-year-old developing shingles? That usually happens in people over 50, per my new gp.

The possibility of extreme crankiness and irritability as a result of shingles in a 31-year-old wife & mother of 3 (including one infant-insomniac)? 99.44%

The likelihood of me being pissed off over the astronomical cost of 4 different kinds of shingles prescription remedies despite my sucky prescription "insurance" (and I use that term lightly)? 100%

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck!

Shingles hurt like a sonofabitch.

The Practice of Medicine

2004-10-11T14:08:00.000-05:00

I know that N isn't the first kiddo to get the words "adopted" and "a doctor" mixed completely the fuck up. (And just yesterday, wasn't that me who was bragging on his comprehension of adoption? What the hell do I know from comprehension.) But, surely, N is the cutest, little confused dickens.

While in the midst of grocery shopping in hell's little half-acre (some refer to it as Super Wal-Mart), we ran into a doctor that I work with. I introduced him to N, and N was his usual charming self (have I mentioned previous, without prejudice naturally, how incredibly handsome N is?). So, the three of us exchange the usual crappy pleasantries and chatted a bit while we were waiting at the check-out line. "I", N states with pride to Dr. From-My-Work, "was a doctor too, when I lived in Korea. Yes, I was a doctor in Korea." "Oh no, honey", I correct him gently but firmly, since as a general rule, doctors from where I work frown on casual, careless bandying-about of the title doctor, "you were adopted in Korea, not a doctor. It's not the same thing at all." "Yes", N continues emphatically, "yes, I was a doctor in Korea. The kind of doctor who stabs people hard, right in the finger and makes them bleed and then paints with their red red blooooooood." Dr. From-My-Work is now very horrified from this exchange, undoubtedly wondering what the hell we do at home in our spare time, and he moves on as quickly as he can. Which is okay with me really, 'cause I don't much like it when my "worlds collide" (work world and home world, in this instance). Checkout girl stares at my precious, precocious boy in a stunned yet oddly admiring silence. N beams back at her, sensing that he has another member for his fan club.

This might not've seemed to macabre to Dr. From-My-Work if he had known that a) N watched C have his repeat PKU test done and b) N recently had a lead screening done. So, stabbing and painting with the resulting blood seems a perfectly common doctor activity to him.

Forever Family

2004-10-07T15:30:00.000-05:00

I've taken a lot of time to explain my children's adoption stories to each of them and to also try to explain the concept of adoption in general. I think they grasp it pretty well, particularly for as young as they are. And normally, my kids get along and I think they have a good big sister/little brother relationship. Honestly. No, I mean it, they truly do. A and N are each other's best friends, even though they can serve a dual-role as "worst enemy" from time to time. Nonetheless, I was a little surprised to hear this exchange coming from my little darlings:

A: "N! You are soooo bugging me! Stop it stop it stop it!"

N: (Continuing whatever annoying activity he's doing. Please note that I am powerless to stop all his annoying-to-A activities, as this encompasses way too many things. The child simply Has to do Something.)

A: (howling now) "Stop it! Stooop It! SToooooppppp!"

N: (Still persevering in the "damn little annoyance" department. He's very talented at this, believe you me.)

A: (in her most cutting tone) "N, sometimes I'm almost sorry we ever adopted you. Now that you're adopted, that means that we will never ever ever be rid of you."

N: (Through it all, he is nothing if not persistent in the "damn little annoyance" department, unphased by A's intended barb. Only now he is more than somewhat gleeful as he realizes he has really really irritated the bejebus out of her. And isn't that what younger siblings are all about?)

Tee. Hee. At least she understands that adoption = permanency. And lest anyone think I'm a completely horrible mother, I sincerely did try to turn this into a love-thy-neighbor teachable moment, but that effort went down in flames, I tell you. Sometimes they just don't buy it. Hmmm . . . maybe that does mean I'm a horrible mother. Make executive decision not to dwell on that thought.

File this under "Things we won't be sharing with the social worker during our next homestudy".

Life's Not Fair, Exhibit A

2004-10-06T16:31:00.000-05:00

Lately, I've read a few blogs of women who are yearning for children, whether through adoption or through infertility treatment. I remember well back when I was enduring the same sort of emotions. That feeling of not being in control of your own family-building, the helplessness in the face of shitty circumstances just sucks. 'Cause see these women? They will be great moms when the opportunity arises. So, thinking about their potential greatness and their frustration made me think about all the instances of life's unfairness. Thusly, I've gotta get it out of my system. We'll start with:

Exhibit A

At around 30 weeks of pregnancy, it was discovered at my routine live baby check that I was having pre-term labor (PTL), with fairly strong contractions at an alarmingly (to Dr. W) rate. This was news to me, as I felt nothing (did not know previously that one could have PTL and not realize it/feel a damn thing). So, was safely ensconced in hospital and whereby was given plenty of fluids and terbutaline to stop the labor that I didn't know I was having. The aforementioned terbutaline then proceeded to wreak much havoc upon my blood pressure (which was already slightly weirding out) and Dr. W. and Dr. V., after much wringing of hands, decided that I would need to be held hostage at the hospital at least for overnight.

When you're a recovering infertile suffering from PTL and the resulting excessive DBTs*, a smallish community hospital is the worst place to be. Not only is there no NICU, but around here, there is also Dr. W (espousing that you can't be delivered here and that your baby will be doomed if he is delivered now in this hospital at this time and that Dr. W will certainly not be a party to this madness, so out of luck there). However, what I hadn't realized beforehand is that there is little to no sound proofing. But what does that mean, you might ask gentle reader. What it means is:

There I was. Lying in my plasticky bed, hooked up to the terbutaline, having to listen to every goddamned laboring moaning groaning woman in the entire fucking hospital. (See? Proof positive that a pregnancy simply does not banish the bitterness or self-centeredness potentially caused by infertility.) And newborn babies wailing. All the while compulsively thinking about various ways that terbutaline, prematurity, high blood pressure, pre-eclampsia, etc could otherwise harm my own precious baby. Then obsessing about whether my baby would actually make it to the "newborn crying" part. And sweet Jesus gay, the incessant volume of the moaning and groaning and panting and screaming was growing louder every blessed minute. Make it stop, please please for the love of God please make it stop! It was worse (way, way worse) than spending the night in a cheap motel. I was like an unwitting voyeur in the world's weirdest, longest porno flick starring laboring pregnant chicks. But I digress.

Anyway, this particular incidence of unfairness started the next morning. For the duration of the night, I'd had my room to myself, in body if not in spirit. But the dawn (I do not exaggerate when I say dawn) brought a roommate. Roomie was there for an induction. She was hugely pregnant and complaining longly and loudly to anyone who will listen. Naturally, I'm feeling sorry for myself and wondering/praying that Please, Please let me get to the hugeness stage, to the large and in charge, full-term-live-baby-yielding point.

Roomie is rather, ahem, rough looking. And I don't mean "rough" in a holier-than-thou way, or in a snobby way or in a "fallen upon hard times" way, but in a "she looked psychotic" and "I was scared to share a toilet with her" way. She also has her two daughters (equally bad-ass looking) in tow. Her two teenage daughters (and isn't this a school day for fuck's sake?!). Her two pregnant teenaged daughters. Her two pregnant teenaged daughters who are whining longly and loudly about how they hate being pregnant. And happily, in turn, her two pregnant teenage daughters each have toddler child of their own in tow. Roomie also brings along a copy of. her. restraining. order. For her Baby Daddy. And guess what? Blonde Pregnant Teenaged Daughter has a restraining order for her Baby Daddy (ya never know when you're going to need it)! This amusement never ends! Now, I fleetingly consider getting a restraining order against my Baby Daddy for leaving me here alone to endure this torture. But, alas, he's taking care of the kids and gainfully employed, so I decide against it.

At long last, Roomie is hooked up to the monitor and labor-inducing-drug-administering ensues. After a few hours (days? weeks?), the nurse returns and Roomie is told that she can go home, and given instructions as to if/when/why she should return to the hospital and that if her labor doesn't progress, she will repeat this same procedure in two days. The nurse exits my own personal hell, I mean, our room and Roomie and Daughters start to gather up their paraphernalia.

As they leave the room, I hear them planning to stop by the local bar on their way home. Since Roomie will deliver soon, they figure there's no way a few beers can hurt the baby at this late stage.

No, they're not kidding.

How is this fair? Why do women like this get pregnant completely without difficulty or stress? And their pregnancies are seemingly easy and uncomplicated, in spite of their own reckless disregard for their babies? Why aren't they the unlucky ones? Why not them? I don't get it.

*DBTs=Dead Baby Thoughts

Adoption After Infertility, as Explained by a Crazy Woman

2004-10-04T11:24:00.000-05:00

Karen of The Naked Ovary poses some dilemmas that have been lurking in the depths of her very soul. Rather than constipate her comments section with my incessant chatter, I decided to provide my own feedback here. Keep in mind that this prattle originates only from my personal experience as the mother of a couple of Asian kids, and that I am not a mental health professional (HA! That was some funny shit, right there, eh?)

So, here goes:

Q#1: Will I be able to handle saying "she's adopted" every time a stranger/friend/acquaintance asks me what is up with the fact that my daughter is Chinese and I am not? Honestly, this just doesn't come up much at all for me. Now, I was a smidgen flabbergasted at the number of strangers who automatically presumed that my daughter was the result of an illicit union between myself and any Asian man who just happened to be in my same zip code. That misunderstanding doesn't happen so much now. I also don't feel obligated to explain my familial connections to any freakin' body if I choose not to. I always tend to err on the side of NOT violating my kid's privacy. But to respond to the bigger issue that this question alludes to is: YOU will have to handle the fact that your kid IS adopted. You will not just have to Handle It, but you will have to be Completely Okay with it. You will have to break the mindset that saying "she's adopted" is a bad phrase, but rather come to consider it as an everyday state of the union. Which it will be.

Q#2 Will I be able to walk into a Baby's R Us, which I am terrified to be near (like it's some huge neon monster) and not cry? Ah, yes. Your checking account, credit cards, and your parents' credit cards will all cry for mercy. You, however, you will be lost to baby shopping bliss.

Q#3. When will I feel the right to buy baby stuff, to even talk about the fact that I will have a daughter? I'm sure this is personal to everyone. For me, once dh & I opened the purse strings to write that mongo check that goes to your agency & to China (or, used to go, it's been awhile, I'm sure procedures have changed) along with your completed dossier, it was a done deal. Our hearts and minds were focused (with a never-again-attained laser-like precision) on that baby girl waiting for us in China. And yes, we decided, she would deserve the best that Babies 'R Us could offer her. And more. So, so, so much more. The timing was similar for my best adoptive mom friend as well.

Q#4 When will I no longer feel like a fat, infertile failure? (Note that I am paraphrasing here, Karen herself was actually much more poignant and eloquent): This is a Tough One. Speaking from my own experience, I can tell you that adoption nor gastric bypass nor pregnancy nor any form of medication the pharmaceutical industry has yet to crank out has helped one damn little bit with the issue of betrayal by my own body. Why me? Why my husband? Why you? Why not that crack whore who beats her twenty-nine kids from twenty-nine dads? Why not her, damnit?! It's been said everywhere that adoption will cure childlessness but not infertility. If you can learn to accept that, things will work themselves out, family-building-wise. Body-betrayal wise, though, it's not so easy.

Q#5 When will I deal with the sense of parenthood-unworthiness and be able to get down with the parenting discussion and interaction with my parenting peers? I worried about this quite a bit. I worried that I wouldn't be a good mom and that other parents would instinctively sense this about me and pity me, since they would know that good parenting abilities couldn't really be expected from me since my kid was adopted. I'll be blunt and tell you that this paranoia didn't go away real quick-like. In fact, my daughter was so unhappy and so grief-stricken and so ill in the early days following her adoption, I was terrified that Chinese officials would "repo" her, since I was so obviously an unfit mother. But as my parenting skills improved and my daughter bonded with her new family, this vanished completely.

Q#6. People email me and tell me that their adoptive babies made "almost all" the pain go away. Honestly, it's not my adopted children's job to make my pain go away. In my opinion, you will be better off if you don't expect that to be the kid's job (child labor laws and all that). It's the kid's job to be a kid and my job to be the best mom I can be, while dealing with my own issues of infertility/pcos freakishness. I'm presuming that the moms in question here are referring to the concept of grieving for the pregnancy they didn't get to experience (and I think that too many times this loss is overly minimized. It shouldn't be, 'cause it does suck). I dealt with that at the time by remembering that my daughter's birthmom had her share of pregnancy trauma, too, thereby keeping in mind that it wasn't all about me. The "not all about me" attitude isn't one I generally cultivate, as I like to be fairly self-centered the majority of the time. I'm kind of shocked that worked for me, but it did.

Q#7. Will I ever stop inadvertantly glaring at women that seem to have all the fertility in the world wrapped up in their womb with a big fleshy bow? Yes. You will be way too worried about food allergies, developmental milestones, creating a lifebook, and potty-training. You think I am joking but I am not. Suddenly, Gerber vs organic vs homemade baby food issues seem incredibly, vitally important. And, they are.

Q#8 What if adoptive daughter yells at me, "You're not my REAL mom, so I don't have to listen to you or even love you!"? She's probably gonna. Regardless of where your kid comes from, it's gonna go thru adolescence and that's going to suck your ass. You'll do what any other mom does: if the phase doesn't pass, you'll sell the kid to the gypsies. Erm, you'll hit the mother's little helper extra hard. Uhm, I mean, sign the kid up for a lobotomy. Or yourself. Or both of you, thereby getting great family rate. Oh, no, I really mean, you'll get counseling. For whoever. And you'll deal.

Q#9 On feeling all alone in a vast world of fertiles: "You are not alone" (sung in creepy Michael Jackson musical tones, oh wait, that's not appropriate at all). Is there an adoption support group either through your agency or otherwise? A local FCC chapter near you? This always helped me out. And I'm presuming you've entered the cesspool known as the APC? It's tetchy, and moody, and whiney, but you definitely won't be alone. During the wait for my daughter, my best adoptive mom friend and I formed our own adoption support group, that's how damn lonely we were. Ya know what? It rocks.

Q#10 Bad mom fears relating to the fact that adoption wasn't one's first choice: As a chick who has wanted to adopt internationally since the age of 15, I don't have solid footing on this one. But I do want to point out that being proactive and recognizing potential problems is a great parenting tool. Showing that you're sensitive to issues surrounding your child's adoption is an awesome start. A wise friend once told me not to make my infertility issues into my daughter's issues. I think that sage advice applies here, too.

If anyone is considering adoption after experiencing infertility, I would highly recommend the read Adopting After Infertility by Patricia Irwin Johnston. It's not the be-all, end-all, but it's a very good start.

God, but all that sharing has worn me out.

Workin' for a Livin'

2004-10-01T14:17:00.000-05:00

alternatively titled, potential career paths I have taken under consideration.

Dh and I have started watching Bounty Hunter on A&E (I think, but maybe it's Discovery or TLC or something). Between Bounty Hunter and Stephanie Plum, I think I've got this bond enforcement shit all figured out. So far, I figure I will need some handcuffs, some kevlar clothing, and a fire-extinguisher sized can of mace and/or pepper spray. Oh, and an assistant who can manage to look intimidating.

Dh says this is will never fly. God, why does he have to be so discouraging?? I'm starting to think that as he is obviously not part of the solution so maybe he's part of the problem.

Other career choices Dh has vetoed of late:

I love alpacas dot com
Private detective (am very nosy, erm curious about people, um I mean, things)
People Psychic
Pet Psychic (am also very good with animals. as long as they don't bite. or hump. or fly.)
Mobile Meth Lab (there is an abundance of room in the Jeep and a TV too)

But now thanks to Leery Polyp, I am hopeful that perhaps I won't need to work at all now, at least not for much longer. See, as per the Fascinating Woman I have made a few parenting, well she would say they're mistakes, but now I am seeing them as a potential financial windfall. But, I'm getting ahead of myself, let me back track a bit. See, the shit of it is that my 6 year old and my 4 year old are already well on the way to reading. At this rate, they will be smarter than me waaaaay before they're fifteen. Now, Ms. Andelin would have you believe that they're too young for jobs, but I beg to differ. As a matter of fact, I've already got the ITT Tech packets on the way. I'm definitely seeing work-from-home medical transcriptionist in both their futures (that is, when those damned adorable alpacas aren't keeping them busy), thereby earning income and saving me money on those too-fucking-high daycare/school expenses. In just a few years, I'll be living a life of leisure while they bring home the bacon. Yes, time really is on my side.

Thank you, Helen (can I call you Helen??), thank you oh so much.

In which I actually respond to requests for further info

2004-09-30T09:34:00.000-05:00

Some of my beloved readers have expressed an interest to know more about my gastric bypass. The blow-by-blow account can be read at my old profile at the obesity help website. I always have to emphasize that RNY is a medical procedure that went easily for me and that is not always the case. I feel compelled to note that if my RE was as hot as my bariatric surgeon I would probably still be in infertility treatment to this day. As a hobby. And I would like it. I'm still pondering that sick thought in my mind. I can't quite believe I have the thought, let alone that I Typed It Out. Ah, well.

A few of you have also asked about my pregnancy that occurred post-RNY, how I did it, what I did, how it went, when it happened. Never fear, gentle readers, a future blogudrama is currently being composed on that very topic, probably to be completed sometime next week.

Functional Illiterate

2004-09-29T09:59:00.000-05:00

So, A and I went to the movie theater to check out a new flick awhile back. A loooooves to go to the movies--she loves the popcorn, the darkness, the foldy seats, the soda, everything. Even if the movie sucks, A will proclaim that she had a fabulous time. I also love to go to the movies and dh doesn't. So, whenever there's an appropriate offering at the theater, I take this kid to "the show" (as we used to call it back in my day). It makes a good mother-daughter outing. The one downfall A has, however, is the "staying-shut-up-while-the-fucking-movie-is-on" part of this date. Sure, I give her pep talks before hand and I reward good behavior and I try to emphasize that she gets to go to the movies & N doesn't (usually) because she is so mature and can behave, etc. But still, she talks at least some.

So, we're sitting quietly in our chairs, waiting for our feature presentation to begin. The previews come on, and A is quietly munching away on popcorn. One preview is for the upcoming Polar Express. This movie looks beautiful and I can see (yes, even in the dark) that A is intrigued by it. I mentally put this on our list of movies to catch later this fall. Anyway, the pictures flash on the screen, interspersed with phrases such as "a movie by blah" or "starring blah blah blah". As each phrase appears, A whispers "what's that say", "what's that say?". I try to shush the kid as best I can, dismayed that the talking has started before the movie has. More phrases flash, more questions from A, more shushing from me. At last, A can take it no more and she's feeling fairly frustrated and I'm getting a little peeved because the brat won't stay quiet and the goddamned movie hasn't even started yet.

A brief moment of silence and then . . . all hell breaks loose.

"What's that SAY?!", she wails loudly. "You know I can't read! We haven't learned those big words yet!" This all said in a loud, disgruntled voice, all pretense at piping down is long gone.

Oh poor thing! Now, I'm feeling a twinge of bad-mother guilt. Uh-oh.

You know, I'm not one to condone bratty pain in the ass behavior, but too often I forget how it is to be a little person in a big person's world. I really need to make more of an effort at this.

A~mused

2004-09-27T14:10:00.000-05:00

Some recent quotes from A, my 6 year old:

"And it was all I could do. Standing there in line, fearing for the bad taste of it." ~ in regard to waiting in the lunch line, afraid that she would have to get chocolate milk because she prefers white.

"You know, that song says 'girls don't like boys, girls like cars and money'. And it's right mom, because that is what I like." ~ in regard to her favorite song on the NOW 14 cd.

"Dad said it was a fake smile, but it felt pretty real to me." ~ in regard to having her soccer team picture taken

Mystify me

2004-09-24T10:35:00.000-05:00

Since I didn't blog or journal or anything during my pregnancy, I might as well blog about it after the fact. When I feel like. Before I forget the whole ordeal entirely.

It was about year ago that the unthinkable happened. Try as I might, I still can't wrap my mind around it. Which isn't saying a whole hell of a lot, since my mind isn't as flexible as it used to be.

Somewhere in late Sept. 2003: As my period approached, I remember thinking that these were the worst damn cramps I'd ever had. True, I'd been off the pill that month, but even so, I usually have pretty mild periods. The cramps were unusual and dammit they hurt. The cramps kept it up for about a week, but still no period. And I'm never late. Early? Sure. Late? Never.

So during one of my innumerable trips to Wal-Mart, I decided. I decided. to. Test. Despite the fact that I had no pregnancy symptoms whatsoever. Despite the fact that I didn't really recall having much sex the month previous. I was cheered to see that a store brand hpt was only going to set me back about $4. I mentally note what a good deal that is. I could test once a month for less than $50/year if I wanted to. And there was a time when I did, you know, want to. But I'm much more sane now than I was then, kinda, sorta, and I only let myself buy one test. The Cheap One. And, I'm so confident that this test will be negative that I also pick up some pads while I'm there, in a higher absorbency than usual. 'Cause these cramps are killing me, in case I hadn't mentioned that, and surely that must be a sign of that the motherfucker of all periods is on its way.

So, I go home and put away the groceries. Then I remember! I bought an hpt today! I could test! As a former hpt-addict, this is a highlight! Except I don't really have to pee. Well, now that I've finally remembered that I have the test, I don't really want to wait. I weigh options of squeezing out very little pee vs. risk of diluted urine from consuming too much fluids too rapidly thereby getting false negative result. Remember that my results are always negative and that they've never been so "falsely" thus far. And then I recall that test just cost $4, so can definitely afford another test, should I decide I need it. So, guzzle some iced tea in careless abandon. Guzzle some more, just to make sure there's enough pee. And to also make sure that I can fall back on that "false negative due to diluted urine" excuse to make myself feel better when I just see one line.

Then while I'm waiting for the iced tea to morph its way into pee, I get to watching me some Trading Spaces and it is VERN and I love him (and if I wasn't already married, then he'd be the father of my children, I swear it). And I forget about the test, and I go pee in the bathroom where you can still see the tv from the toilet 'cause I don't want to miss a second of the Vern goodness. So, somewhere in the neighborhood of watching a Law & Order rerun I remember that I forgot to test. So, I drink some more iced tea and am thankful that I think that I'm probably not pregnant so that I don't have to worry about caffeine. While I'm brushing my teeth, I remember the test again, and I really do have to pee now, so I go ahead and take it. I set it in the bathroom cabinet to "cook" while I brush my teeth, as I decide that I'm not really in the mood to see just the one line 'cause that will make me all "depressed 'cause I Failed" and other shit like that.

So I've changed into my pajamas and am completely ready for bed when I remember that I left the test cooking in the bathroom cabinet. I look at the result, see two lines and immediately think:

FUCK!

This cheap generic test is defective.

I decide not to tell dh the news right away. So, five minutes later I run downstairs and blurt it all out, whilst waving the defective generic test stick soaked with urine in his face. He concurs that the test is defective and immediately drives the five miles back to Wal-Mart. Later, he returns with a 3 pack of First Response. By tomorrow morning (when all three of those are positive), we're both convinced that First Response tests just aren't the same quality they used to be, since all these are obviously defective too.

And that, my 3 readers, is how we learned that baby C was on the way. Who'da thunk it?

Metro (Gel) Sexual

2004-09-24T08:52:00.000-05:00

I love my MetroGel, truly I do. With a passion uncontested.

Back in the days before I gave in and admitted that I have rosacea, I struggled along trying to convince myself that redness "it's just acne" ('cept it wasn't) or "this new foundation covers this right up" ('cept it didn't). I tried herbal remedies, various and sundry products from Estee Lauder, Mary Kay, but none of those helped a damn bit.

Then one particularly bitchy doc who was supposed to be seeing me as a new patient for my pcos suggested the MetroGel. This doc was so bitchy, I almost hate to give her credit for the MetroGel suggesting (as I do love it so), but she really did suggest it. She must've been having a rare moment of clarity or something.

So I tried it (that fact is surprising, given that I completely disregarded all other assvice given by aforementioned bitch doctor).

And now I love MetroGel, and want to kiss it, and hug it, and call it my very own, and have it's babies, and we'll be married, and never be apart, and and and . . .

And now I have nice smooth skin. Well, except for during my pregnancy when I stopped using the MetroGel because I wanted C to have a chemical free amniotic life. But I longingly caressed the MetroGel tube every day during my pregnancy, dreaming of the day we'd be reunited at last. And now we finally are. Sweet blessed Jesus gay, now we are.

No one can ever take you away from me, MetroGel. We're together forever (said in creepy, stalker-like tone).

Insightful missives from various disgruntled body parts

2004-09-22T14:49:00.000-05:00

Dear Laurie:

You thought you were soooooo sneaky regulating the hormones on us, what with your fancy schmancy gastric bypass and the oh-so-potent glucophage and the ever-powerful spironolactone and the stifling heat of Yasmin. And the supplements, my God, the endless supplements--did you have to add in the magnesium and the green tea? We'd come to expect the fertility drugs to try to pump us up, but instead, you went and shut us down. Yeah, you really thought you were such hot shit. Those ultrasounds that weren't focused solely on us were quite emotionally painful. The dildocam is supposed to zero in on US--the lumpy, the bumpy, the freaks of nature. The trips to the gyn to discuss issues other than our cystic powers was hurtful, really it was. We realize now we'd been spoiled by the RE. The lack of attention was emotionally painful to the extreme, but we somehow survived.

Now listen up, and listen but good. We let you have the pregnancy (taa--hope you enjoyed the pre-eclampsia and the bonus prize of HELLPS), and we mostly kept quiet. You've had your fun, and meanwhile, we were plotting our revenge, girlie. We'll be a fool for your meds no more, ya hear?

You thought those meds had us beat down? Ya think that pregnancy got the best of us? There's a new game in town now. In case it's slipped your attention, we've returned to power. We'll running rampant now, and no, that cyst pain ain't all in your head, girlfriend. Yasmin has no power over us whatsoever. You will pay, by God, you will pay with your very blood. Daily. You will, in fact, own every fucking product Kotex manufactures. You will also maintain a healthy yet rapidly depleting stash of ob tampons in a variety of absorbencies, to be used wherever and whenever we see fit.

Don't you try this crap again. Neither Dr. W or Dr. V is a match for us and you know it. We will not be made fools of. We know where you live. Resistance is futile.

Hate,

The Ovaries
Bad as We Wanna Be

Dear Laurie,

Please, please give in to the ovaries. Whatever their demands--they're bleeding me dry in here.

Warm regards,

Uterus
p.s. Give my regards to the Fetus Formerly Known as Cletus. I do miss the little guy.

Dear Laurie,

We regret to inform you that we will never be returning to our former position, as we were in rather close proximity to each other. The pregnancy introduced us to the fact that we are much happier the further we are apart. Way, way, way apart. Thusly, we have decided to permanently relocate, about 15 miles away from each other. We suggest that you buy bigger jeans to compensate for this fact.

Truly,

HipBones

Laurie:

Where the hell is the loofah? When you were pregnant, we could accept the fact that it was difficult to bend over to reach us. The c-section bought you a few extra weeks of slack. However, now you've gone too far. We suggest you get familiar with the business end of a pumice stone or we can't be held responsible for our actions. Let's just say you get a super deluxe pedicure speedy-quick like, and no one will get hurt.

Left & Right Foot

Blog by Numbers

2004-09-20T14:39:00.000-05:00

5: different blogs I've seen this idea on

5: different blogs that executed this idea better than I did

4: colleges I've attended in my lifetime

1: number of husbands I've had

43: blogs I read on at least a semi-regular basis

10: jobs I've had in my life

2: house cats I've had during my life thus far

1: number of houses I've built from scratch

17: times per day I wish I'd just went ahead & gone to law school when I was younger so I wouldn't regret it so much now

2: times I've been engaged

4: times per week I actually do make a daily to-do list on my daytimer, on average

396: dollars generated from our last yardsale

19: times per day I renew my conclusion that it's too late for me to start law school at this point in my life

10: years I've been married

1: number of houses I lived in whilst growing up

4: cities I've lived in during my entire life

1,367: years it feels like I've been married

54: times per day that I think about eating something chocolate

2: pregnancies I have had

4: number of total kids I'd like to have someday

73: times per day I wish I had a different, better paying job

1: time per day I eat popcorn, meanwhile wishing it were something chocolate, like cake

2: men this week (who are not my husband) have said I look damn fine.

19,946: times per day I wish dh had a different, better paying job so that it wouldn't matter whether/what kind of job I had

3: kids I have

9: pregnancy pounds I still need to lose

2: adoptions I've been lucky enough to complete

229: my favorite TV channel on directv

8: days my baby spent in the NICU

140: pounds I've lost after my gastric bypass

1: clothing sizes that I'm "up" post-baby

800: days it felt like my baby spent in the NICU

9: times I've had sex since giving birth

12: days I've spent in a foreign country

4: times I eat out per week, on average

115: times since giving birth I've seriously considered having sex but decided against it because I was too fucking exhausted.

7: times my mother in law has pissed me off during this summer alone

0: times I've had sex in a foreign country

3: total times my sister has called me since acquiring her new, loser boyfriend (she pays his child support, for God's sake)

2: years since my gastric bypass

59: times my husband asked me to have sex while we were in a foreign country

3: times it's been warm enough on the weekend to take my kids to the pool this summer

1: time this baby has slept thru the night since I've known him

Fists of Fury

2004-09-19T10:38:00.000-05:00

So, since C is my third kid, I didn't go "all out" during the baby buying phase before his arrival. That was partly because I felt doomed, but also partly because he was #3, and I'd already gone "all out" twice previously. Except for the newborn-sized clothes, just cause they are so damn cute and I'd never bought anything that little for any kid of mine. I did go "all out" for newborn-sized clothes. And I'd do it again, damnit.

But since I didn't go "all out" for the baby equipment, that's how C ended up with the el cheapo Pooh bouncy seat, instead of the fancy lit-up aquarium one or doubles-as-a-toddler-rocking-chair bouncy seat. No, C enjoys the $20 Pooh and friends bouncy seat, which we haven't even gotten around to installing batteries in. We're bad asses like that. So C sits in his battery-less therefore not so bouncy seat oogling at the Pooh and Tigger stuffed toys dangling in front of him.

In the past few weeks, C has discovered his hands. This has been so cute to watch. Subsequently, he has also discovered that his hands can also serve a dual role as FISTS! He's often doubling up his fists and sticking them up at me. See? See?! Here are fists!! Now these hands are multifunctional, not just purely for decoration anymore. And in his opinion, these hands taste pretty damn good, too. They could just be the best friggin' hands C's ever tasted. Since the somewhat miraculous discovery of his fists, C has a new goal in life: To kick Pooh's (of the bouncy seat dangling fame) ass. Anytime I look over at my little darling, ensconced in the seat, he's pummeling the bejebus out of poor helpless Pooh, and growling all the while. The hell it's so much friendlier with Pooh, that's the thought clearly running through his little baby brain. This kid's had enough of Pooh pompously taunting him and he's not gonna take it anymore, damnit.

Once C feels he's put Pooh in his place, he seems in a much better humor and appears to have quite a sense of accomplishment. So take that, rich Disney bastards.

The blood red badge of what-the-fuck?

2004-09-17T08:56:00.000-05:00

I'm not one of those women who likes to talk about her period. I'm just not. I gracefully opt out of those intense office discussions in which the female staff members all compare their period now to their period on the pill to their period when they were 14.5 years old to their period in the periods to come. I do not play the "my period damn right is worse than yours" game. I do not invest in lavendar and thyme scented pantiliners. I do not feel the need to announce to my friends that "My GOD! the torrentialness of my period blah blah friggin' blah".

Nevertheless, here I am. Blogging about my period. This is my third month of bcp post-pregnancy. This is the third month of screwy goings on. So, here are three months worth of menstrual chronicles:

Month 1: Take my pills. My period starts when there are TWO PILLS LEFT IN MY PACK! What is up with that? That's never happened before, and I am a pill veteran I tell you. I know how to take me some pills. I chalk it up to post-partum weirdness and go about my business.

Month 2: Take my pills. My period starts when there are THREE PILLS LEFT IN MY PACK! THREE?! I decide to call Dr. W (who is the only! gyn available locally, that is why). After three days of phone conversations like this:

Nurse: But you're supposed to get your period at the end of your pills.

Me: No, no, no stupid bitch I still have pills to take. Not the white sugar pill ones, but the orange supposed-to-be-doing-something ones.

Nurse: Oh. I've never heard of that. I'll ask Dr. W and call you back tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes. Our conversation goes like this:

Nurse: But you're supposed to get your period at the end of your pills.

Me: No, no, no stupid bitch I still have pills to take. Not the white sugar pill ones, but the orange supposed-to-be-doing-something ones.

Nurse: Oh. I've never heard of that. I'll ask Dr. W and call you back tomorrow.

At long last, Dr. W relays to me, through his nurse, that my pills are indeed working. This is nothing to worry about. I decide to give Dr. W the benefit of the doubt that he may know what he's talking about. 'Cause he's the only gyn in town (except for Dr. V), so what choice do I have, that's why. So, I go about my business.

Month 3: I take my pills. I have bled every day. Every. goddamned. day. I don't know if one could call this my period, because it's not as heavy as it usually is. I do need to wear a pad. I still have orange pills to take. I'm still taking them. I'm still bleeding.

Is this menopause at 31? Or is this just my fucked up body taking its revenge because it had to endure a pregnancy? Is a hysterectomy breathing down my goddamned neck? Or is this normal for a post-partum girl? Why didn't I pay more attention during those office-wide period discussions. It just goes against all I believe in to initiate an office period discussion. I have tried to make myself do it. But I just can't. And God, I just don't think I can stand to call Dr. W's office again. Maybe if I liquor myself up some . . .

That is all.

Model Cytizen

2004-09-16T16:28:00.000-05:00

or maybe that should read Model Cyst-izen

My other ob, Dr. Grandfatherly Genius (the one who actually did the baby-delivering, not to be confused at all with Dr. Weird, the one who did the nagging, chastising, griping, whining, hand-patting, shoulder-squeezing, & ruckus-rousing, or with Dr. W's partner Dr. Vain, or with my perinatologist, Dr. QuirkyNerd) has a strong interest in pcos. Or, rather his practice does. They somehow co-sponsor a pcos support group (for anyone w/pcos, not just their own patients) and are up on all the "new research". And for something totally different, they actually encourage their patients to bring in pcos articles for them to review. All practices that I think are quite hip & trendy.

I like Dr. GG, I really do. He was soooo supportive during the last few weeks of my somewhat freakish pregnancy and he actually managed to act like he not only actually gave a rat's ass about me & my cletus-the-fetus, but also to convey the impression that he cared very much about my well-being. This meant a lot, as compared to Dr. W's "your pregnancy is going to hell in a handbasket just deliver this little bastard and get the fuck off my watch" attitude.

However.

Dr. GG thinks that I should speak at the pcos support group because I am a shining example of someone who took control of their pcos through my gastric bypass, diet, nutrition supplements and prescription meds. I figured this little "remedy" out on my own, and I totally realize (and emphasize) that while it worked for me, it may very well not work at all for anyone else. I do not expect nor would I encourage anyone to make the same decisions that I've made. But Dr. GG thinks that I would be an encouragement for women to take an active role in researching/advocating for their own treatment. An encouragement to my fellow cysters, which is indeed a heartwarming thought.

Problem is, I do not feel like being an encouragement. The not wanting to be an encouragement makes me feel strangely selfish. But I still just don't wanna. He's brought this up to me a few times. But still. I don't wanna. Is this so wrong?

I got yer velveeta right here, baby . . .

2004-09-14T13:42:00.000-05:00

This just in: yet more evidence that I have adopted the cutest, sweetest, most-likely-to-be-a-very-charming-&-successful-con-man Korean boy.

N is such a little ham. I swear, I know I spoil him too much, but I just can't help myself. Another shining example of my guy's irresistible, charismatic little personality:

A, unlike her usually well-behaved self, was throwing a huge fit over something. So, up in her room, she was wailing and screaming away. I (being an exceptional parent) was ensconced on the couch, watching cartoons despite the fact that good God, she was making my head hurt. Not to sound too much like an ogre, A could've watched cartoons with us if she would've apologized for her behavior and stopped screaming (behavior that would come, grudgingly, much later).

N is unaccustomed to seeing A punished, since usually there's not a lot of call for it. N is, however, used to being the one punished--he's just too rambunctious and too ornery and too smart for his own good. Therefore, he's usually the one called on the carpet. But, not in this instance. A was mid-conniption fit, and N was snuggled up next to me on the sofa, looking up at me more than a little angelically. 'Cause it's rare for him to actually see someone else get in trouble without him being a party to it. Anyway, during this tender moment, he murmurs to me "Hmmrph. A is in trouble. Big, big trouble. Now I am the goodest, best one."

How adorable is that? Isn't he just the dickens? Couldn't you just eat him up? Nevermind that on odd-numbered days I want to sell him to the gypsies. Without a doubt, I have the three of the cutest best goodest kids.

It's my blog. I can be as cheesy as I wanna be.

For another subject entirely, I am sorely craving me some good Chinese food.

Here's my trouble

2004-09-13T10:26:00.000-05:00

See, I've found out why my former ob, Dr. Weird, and I didn't get along. No one ever told this recovering infertile girl that she was supposed to practice the love with her ob. It took me 10 years of marriage to get knocked up after all, it's a given I'm a slow learner. Dr. W should've known from my medical history that he'd have to spell it out for me. I just didn't know what was expected. No wonder the bastard was so damn grouchy. He just needed a little love practicin' to cement our dr-patient relationship.

Although the thought of sharing the love with Dr W makes me a little queasy. And invites some rather unwelcome and somewhat nauseating mental pictures. La La LaLa La La LaLa La La LaLa, envisioning something else much more pleasant now.

Hmmmm . . . now also thinking that dh would've embarked upon much more lucrative career of obgyn if he'd known that love-practicing was involved. Ah, well.

Filing this info away under "Things to remember should I get knocked up again". Thank ya much, George W.

Back, ass words

2004-09-12T16:08:00.000-05:00

Last summer, A was into pants/shorts/capris with words written across the ass. So much so, she managed to acquire 3/4 of her wardrobe featuring various slogans and a fair amount of glitter emblazoned across the butt.

This summer, she's shunned the ass words pants, entirely. Unfortunately, that occurrence didn't take place until after we'd started buying up her summer wardrobe. Forget that almost every damn pair from last summer still fits. All shunned nevertheless, in favor of denim short shorts. A would've preferred the shorts w/ the 1.25mm inseam, but ever one for modesty and grace, I held my ground. All of her shorts have at least an inseam of 3mm (and that extra mm is damn hard to come by, I'll have you know). I do have standards, I'm not raising a tramp here. And so, all of the ass words pants/shorts are now relegated to oblivion, in the back of A's closet.

All this to say: If you're wanting to display messages like "cutie", "cheerleading", "soccer", and "sweetheart" on your hindquarters, I can help you out. So long as you wear a child's size 4/5. I'm here to serve.

Please pass the prozac

2004-09-10T16:06:00.000-05:00

I've heard it said that pregnancy after infertility causes the worst post-partum depression. Isn't that just another kick in the fucking pants. A little bit of humble pie, wrapped in mystery, peppered with irony, shot through with misery. How in the hell is that fair? Who needs this shit anyway?

I think I am depressed.

My husband is constantly telling me I am.

My mother is forever telling me I am.

My mother-in-law is incessantly telling my husband that I am. I don't really know how she makes that diagnosis, since I avoid her like the goddamned plague but whatever. Screw her anyway, which is a thought I always have, depressed or not.

Okay. So. Well, I am depressed. I think I may be so depressed that I need some meds. It's not that I'm against the meds so much. I have been on meds before. There are good things and bad things about meds, if you ask me. Currently, one of my main problems with the meds is that I have no doctor. My ob and I parted on not the friendliest of terms. Okay, so maybe hostile is a better word. Because he was an incompetent, cold, hand-patting, shoulder-squeezing, waist-hugging stupid-ass freak bastard. So he is definitely out. My gp is no longer practicing. He was mediocre at best anyway. So he is definitely out. And I just feel weird making my first appointment with a brand new doc, walking in, and saying brightly, "Hello, my name is Laurie. Nice to meet you. I am stark, raving, fucking nutters. I'd like some prozac, if you please and I'll be on my way." Because pretty much, that's all of an explanation that I'll be able to muddle through before I start bawling. Because talking about my depression makes me feel lousy and ungrateful and useless and that makes me start bawling, even if I had not felt like bawling prior to the discussion about my depression.

I need to get this figured out somehow. Sigh.

Through rain, sleet, snow, my ass

2004-09-09T09:23:00.000-05:00

I am at work. And I can't get into my personal email account (I can access my work one just fine, but that's work). Oh. No. I feel so isolated, so cut off from the outside world, so lonely. Misery loves company. No, misery needs, craves, must have company and can't live without it.

Getting a little panicky now. Oh nonononononononono. Please, please let it work soon.

Breathe in.

Breathe out. Hoo hee hee, hoo hee hee, hoo hee hee.

Why the fuck didn't I take those lamaze classes? They would've been useless for my c-section but possibly v. helpful during times like these. Oh, hyperventilating just a bit. I need outside contact. I need it, crave it, must have it, I tell you. Oh, wait. I think I already wrote that somewhere.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. SHIT.

Lonely, oh so lonely, I'm sooo lonely . . .

ONE is the loneliest numBAH, ONE is the loneliest . . .

Alone again, naturally

Are you lonesome tonight?

I get so lonely, can't let just anybody hold me . . .

Like a drifter I was born to walk alone . . .

Solitaire see what it's like now, solitaire to cry all night now . . .

Only the lonely, (dum dum dum dum)

Show me the meaning of being lonely . . .

It's like I told you, only the lonely can play . . . only the loooonnnnelyyyyy

How do I get you aloooooonnnne??

This is a song, for the lonely . . .

Hey there, Lonely Girl . . .

All by myseeeelllllf, don't wanna be all byy myyyyyyyselllf

And so completes the maudlin song lyrics I can think of right now. I tried to cover all of the most irritating genres. Okay, so maybe not all of them fit the situation so good. Lonely was the operative word. I am getting desperate and possibly the smallest scooch crazy. And I do the best I can with what I have. So there.

No substitutions, extensions or refunds

2004-09-08T15:55:00.000-05:00

N has recently started preschool (despite the fact that he thinks he "doesn't need school") and he's loving every minute of it. N is proud of having made lots of friends already and is quite full of himself. So, today I needed to take him down a peg or two, despite the fact that I hate to do it. He'd just pushed the monkeyshines way too far, it's all fun and games until somebody (like me) gets hurt, ya know? Yada, yada, yada.

So, I put him in the corner. Which he hates. With. A. Passion.

After much wailing and caterwauling, I let him out, and follow up with what I think is a stern yet loving lecture.

Having vented his fury while in the corner, N calmly but firmly replies, "Tomorrow, I am taking you back to the mommy store and get my money back."

Gee, I wonder how much the mommy store will think I am worth? Probably just a lousy gift card towards a new mommy or something lame like that.

Tactlessness: it's not just for infertility anymore

2004-09-07T10:11:00.000-05:00

When I read the goings-on over at Barren Mare and Naked Ovary, I decided that I needed to make my own foray into the quest for answers to the "When Did It Become Okay?" nightmare. I've had all holiday weekend to mull this over, so it's gonna be a doozy.

When did it become okay . . .

to quietly, but firmly, inform people that the infertility was all my fault because (pre-gastric bypass) I "was soooooo big"? a la my mother-in-law. Even though she's convinced it's true, why why why oh why does she spout off about this all the time. See all along my enormous weight gain, was, in fact, a method of birth control. I thought it worked swimmingly well. So there.

to ask, in all seriousness, when I was in all of my fourth month of pregnancy, if I thought that my pregnancy weight had "all gone to my hips and butt"?

to say, that because I "acted okay" that I really didn't have pre-eclampsia and that contrary to blood test results, that I probably really didn't have renal or liver failure, again, because I "looked fine". Thus damning the entire medical profession to uselessness, due to the fact that the repeated and quite vocal observations of casual acquaintances are more reliable than a doctor's diagnosis, lab results, and a second opinion. And cheaper too. Sshh, don't tell the insurance or they will be muy pissed off.

to blame every single complaint or dislike I've had post-pregnancy on "post partum depression", even the problems that I've complained about for the past 3 years, a la my husband and my mother-in-law. Oh, all right, yes, I admit to being so gifted in bitchiness that I can actually channel postpartum depression several years before my actual pregnancy occurred. I have carefully cultivated this talent for over 30 years, it's not something one can just casually aspire to.

to repeatedly tell me (whilst I'm suffering and stressed out from pre-term labor at 30 weeks) that your own "miscarriages didn't bother" you at all. Well, that is because you are a freak and I refrain from telling you that.

to tell people (when introducing my children) that "A came from China, N came from Korea, and C came from God". The only implication I get from this is that someone doesn't think my older two kids came from God. Then, if I'm really really really lucky, follow this up with the comment about the infertility being all my fault. Yep, this from my mother in law again, God love her.

to perkily inform me that, "see, you adopted and then you got pregnant!" Um, okay. It was the adoption that cured me. We'll be sending those troublesome kids back now--that was one damned stressful cure, I'm telling you. And since A is 6 years old, it was the slowest cure I've just about ever seen. Whew, good thing we grew to love the little buggers. This comment is best issued from the SuperFertile Myrtles of the world who have no experience with adoption or infertility. That makes it best.

to ask about me about the birthparents of my older two children, usually while in the presence of my older two children. Uh, yeah. Like that's your business.

to ask if I have cancer (or, my personal favorite, AIDS) since I've lost so much weight. Because if I did have a terminal illness, I'd want to be all chatty about it over a luncheon with a group of casual acquaintances. Since, yeah, it takes the threat of death for fat girls to stop eating. It's a little-known obesity cure, but please don't tell Dr. Talbott or he'll try to bottle it.

to sarcastically (and, I daresay, cattily?) remark that "it must be nice to wear such small jeans". Okay, they are a size 8. EIGHT!! I ain't Twiggy. Get hold of yourself, bitch. Is "cattily" a word? I thought it was, but it sure doesn't look right.

I think that about covers it. For now, anyway.

Blather, wince, repeat

2004-09-01T09:55:00.000-05:00

I've been working on this entry for awhile. The thing is, I just can't seem to completely scourge the self-righteous tone from it, imo. And I don't mean to be self-righteous at all. I just gotta get this off my chest. So, here we go. Don't say I didn't warn you.

We've already covered my kids and my somewhat-infertility-inspired overprotectiveness. I know that we have.

But I don't think I've shared that I'm a founding member of our local international adoptive families support group. It's a very cool, laid back group. Our quarterly-or-so gatherings consist of 20-30 families, eating supper, while kids of various races/ages/genders run amuck and cause general chaos. I'm about as protective of each one of our "group kids"as I am my own children.

I have also previously mentioned that I have had a gastric bypass. I know it's not a solution for everyone, and I realize that I've had a much easier road than many people. I am willing to share my experience, but realize it's not representative for everyone.

I have also adopted internationally/transracially. I love it. It's been two of the absolute best things I've ever done. However, it's not for everyone either. Adoption done wrong serves no one, least of all the kid involved.

Now, keep those things in mind.

A few years ago, one of our group members brought along their hairstylist to one of our international adoptive families gatherings. We will refer to her (the hairstylist) as Chickie. Chickie and her husband expressed interest in our group, and had confided to aforementioned member of our group about their infertility woes and said that they were interested in pursuing adoption. So, Chickie comes to our gathering, where she and her husband spend the entire evening huddled in the corner, looking horrified and disgusted. It is obvious that Chickie is having some sort of problem dealing with this all; I presume it has to do with unresolved IF issues, but don't pursue it with her. At this time, I'm kind of angered that she's chosen to drag her shit out in front our kids, some of whom are old enough to realize that this gathering is quite obviously not pleasing to her. If it weren't for that, I would have more sympathy for her. Actually, at the beginning of the evening, I do empathize with her, but as she gets poutier and poutier, my tolerance wanes.

A few days later, I realize that Chickie & I work out at the same gym. Seeing me reminds her of "the gathering", and I overhear her confiding to a friend that international adoption is "soooo not for her" and that "she could never do that". I can't remember the details, but it's made painfully obvious to me that Chickie is troubled by the non-whiteness of "our kids" in the group. It's probably a good time to reiterate that I have no problem with anyone who chooses not to adopt, transracially or otherwise, or with anyone who is struggling with IF issues. Most certainly, I've dealt with similar conflicts myself. It was the way Chickie misrepresented herself (as someone who was planning to adopt internationally) to our group and the way she treated our kids and the group members who reached out to her that ticked me off. And my kids are Asian, so her attitude of "a white baby would be better" does kind of rub me the wrong way. Furthermore, using her attendance at our gathering as a means to further the stereotype that international adoption/adoptive families are somehow wrong is mildly pissing me off. Chickie later reiterates to the group member who invited her, "she could never do that." Okay, then don't. Whatever. It's not like we make meth at our gatherings. I decide that perhaps Chickie is suffering from some form of Adoptophobia. For her sake, I fervently hope that a vaccine is available soon. I figure it's probably for the best that she's not adopting anyone, and then promptly forget her very existence.

Fast forward a few years later. I'm having a yard sale in which I sell all my pre-gastric bypass surgery clothing. I was afraid to sell this stuff until post-pregnancy. I was deathly scared that pregnancy would make me as big as I was before surgery. And, it's kind of bittersweet--some of these clothes I really love, but it's hard to believe I was so big. I remember being uncomfortable, but I must've been more uncomfortable than I realized at the time. Oh wait, that's got nothing to do with the point of this, nevermind.

Anyway, at said yard sale, Chickie is in attendance. Only I don't recognize her, 'cause I had already forgotten about her very existence long ago. As previously noted, it's been awhile, at least a few years. Chickie herself suffers from pcos and is plus-size. So even though I hate her (a fact I don't yet recall), I do feel a reluctant kinship, in spite of myself. Chickie tries on several items of my former wardrobe. Some things fit her, but others are too small. As she is crying in my garage (because of her weight, I presume), she tearfully asks whose clothes these are. I think this is an odd question, but I want her to quit bawling so I answer truthfully rather than my usual backsass. I say they were mine. Chickie remarks that it's hard to believe that I was ever that big. (Fat girl on the inside is hurt by this little jab, but decides to be bigger person and overlook it.) Given her emotional state, I decide to share with her that I have had a gastric bypass (normally, I am in the closet irl about my surgery). I do share this because she is so obviously miserable with her size, bawling about it as she is, in my (a stranger, because she does not recognize me either) garage. Furthermore, I share that I not only look and feel better and am healthier, but that my pcos has improved somewhat and that I was even able to have a successful pregnancy. I say these things not to persuade her about gastric bypass, but because she is so obviously depressed and in despair, and I'm wanting to give her hope.

At the end of my little confessional, when I am all warm & fuzzy and feel like we be sisters and all, Chickie manages to dry her snot on some of my clothes that she's not buying and to collect her composure. "Oh. Gastric bypass.", says Chickie in quite a cool tone. I get inkling that maybe we're not like sisters after all. "Well. I mean, everyone dies from gastric bypass.", Chickie says authoritatively. I, quite obviously alive, look at her confused. Chickie continues, "Gastric bypass, I mean, I could never do that."

She could never do that. Where have I heard that before? All of a sudden, the fire of recognition blazes a trail through my brain and I remember who the hell Chickie is! I successfully stifle urge to knock Chickie senseless. And then I laugh my ass off, much to her bewilderment.

See, this is the thanks I get when I try to be nice to people.

The depths of despair

2004-08-31T15:57:00.000-05:00

Anyone ever watch Anne of Green Gables? Anybody? Drama is my bag today, baby.

Okay, so it's not really the depths of despair.

Ssshhh . . . You may not know this about me. My husband certainly doesn't.

When I'm depressed, I shop. And, my current job situation makes me depressed. So, I have shopped.

Thus far, I have outfitted two out of three kids with new fall wardrobes (the girl-child, A., will not let me select her clothing without her presence, blast it, should never have encouraged independent thinking in that one). Now, I have moved on to the not-as-spendy endeavor of used books. I think I've touched briefly on my love of used books in the past. The good thing about depressed shopping for used books online is that you can get a lot of used books for not (as compared to a new wardrobe for each child) a lot of money. That's not so bad. Plus, readin's my passion, so it's not as if these books won't be put to good use. Eventually. I've also pre-ordered several dvds. The awesome thingy about pre-ordering is that you can cancel the pre-order once you manage to cheer yourself up out of the bowels of despair and are no longer depressed anymore. Unless, of course, you manage to cheer yourself way way wayyyyyy up and then forget about recent bout of depressed shopping, thusly forgetting to cancel pre-ordered goods . . . Once I've finished up with the book shopping phase, my plan is to segue into purchasing lipstick colors I may look good in and fragrances I've been wanting to try and then move on to scented candles that may (or may not) cheer me up whilst I'm at work.

Best of all, I have secret arrangements to pay for the ill-gotten gains (credit card with on-line billing only, goes to email account that dh doesn't know I have), have further conspired with ups man as to where covert deliveries go (in the Lil' Tykes cabin, it's not just for playin' house anymore), and where the packaging/invoices go (down the Diaper Champ, if dh wants to fish in that, more power to 'im).

Now, you know. Now you know the depths of my madness. The disgusting, slimy lengths I'll go to in order to fuel my addiction. The addiction that has inspired to to rampant, shameless use of italics in order to further emphasize my deranged state of mind.

Oh, btw, I have an upcoming interview. For a position that pays less than I currently make. See, it's not the plain ol' vanilla job finding that I have problems with, it's that better-payin' job finding that I can't seem to manage.

Who cast me in the role of rainmaker, anyway? I didn't sign up for this, I tell ya.

I'm feeling kind of sickish now.

May I take your order?

2004-08-26T08:47:00.000-05:00

Throughout my pregnancy with C., my daughter, A. (age 6, adopted from China) was fascinated by the process. She eagerly awaited her new brother right along with me. A. had lots of pregnancy vs adoption questions and I answered them all to the best of my ability. She knows her own and her brothers adoption stories, and she talks about when she will have/adopt her own kids.

Lately, we've had several conversations that go a little something like this:

A: "Yesterday at the restaurant, Granny & I saw twins. Twin babies. And Granny said, 'Oh Avery, how would you like twins?' And, mom, I've thought about this and I've decided that I would. I would like twins. Twin brothers. Plus, you named N and you named me, and Dad named C. It's only fair that I get to name a baby now. It's my turn. I get a turn."

me: (mentally wondering when someone explains infertility to a kid.) "Well, that is a nice thought. I hope that we get to adopt another kiddo someday, if we have the opportunity and enough money. Probably just one more though, and almost definitely not twins."

A: "Well, I only want boys. And, I want you to grow the babies in your tummy, like you did with Cole. I don't want to use our money for another adoption, remember we're saving that money for Disney World and for visiting China someday."

me: (Now puzzling over why she thinks the "adoption fund" and the "vacation fund" are one and the same. Oh wait, that's 'cause they are. and they're both broke. Make executive decision to withhold this information.) "Ummmm . . . You're quite the little material girl." (Vaguely feeling as though I've missed teachable opportunity here, but my sleep-deprived brain can't quite wrap around just what that opportunity is exactly.)

A: "I'm going to name this new guy Quidditch."

me: "Well, remember if a baby grows in your tummy, you don't get to pick boy or girl when the baby grows in your tummy. And, you don't really get to pick if you want twins, even if you grow them in your own tummy. You don't really have much say over what grows in your tummy. Granny was just teasing you. Anyway, if we did have twins, where would we put them? We don't have room for any more car seats either. After all, the back seat of the jeep is completely full with the three of you guys."

A: "Oh good. That means we can finally get a minivan too. I've always wanted one of those. I get the back seat. I want a green one. Dakota has a green one, that's the kind I want. Quidditch could be for a girl. Just a different middle name."

me: Speechless (mentally concluding that somewhere this talk has taken a horribly wrong turn, feeling as if I have failed to accurately convey life's priorities, decide no comment is the best policy.)

Ya want fries with that?

That Voodoo I do so well

2004-08-24T09:38:00.000-05:00

So today, while I'm doing my daily blogging, I come across lwteacher's info on Madame Zoira . I scroll down a bit and see a picture that diagrams how to read my palm. Right away, I see the problem. And suddenly, all becomes clear!

This self-palm-examination has revealed exciting answers. I now know what the trouble is with my job hunt. 'Twas doomed from the start, you see. Possibly, this palm defect is the root of all my problems throughout my entire life. Nothing is my fault. I have a disability. I don't know why someone didn't clue me in earlier. A lot of pain could've been spared, I tell you.

You see, I have no fucking success line.

Or rather, my palm has no fucking success line.

None. what. so. ever.

So, at least now I know for sure that I'm screwed. Ya know, my magic eight ball could've saved me a lot of time and heartache if it would've pony'd up this knowledge before now. 31 years of pain, right down the crapper.

Madame Zoira, I thank you for this. Do you, by chance, do life coaching?

Perfect

2004-08-24T09:07:00.000-05:00

It is official: I do not piss off absolutely everyone in my path.

Today was a rainy dreary day here at casa cystah. One of those kind of days that makes it hard to get out of bed, ya know?

After hitting the snooze as many times as the law will allow, I stumble up the stairs to wake up the two older kidlets. I help N, the 4 year old, get dressed. He is so cute when he is still sleepy, I can still see those faint traces of babyhood. God, I love that. Anyway, once he shakes off the fog of sleep, he pipes up, "I wanna wear my Scooby clothes."

"Okay", I reply.

"No, I wanna wear Scooby Doo, get my Scooby clothes out, please!", N insists.

Mentally, I'm thinking that I'm not arguing with him, but whatever. I get the requested outfit down from his closet, and help him on with his shirt (it has neck-buttons, and he doesn't quite have those down yet). I straighten out his shorts and he's good to go. And such a handsome little guy, I'll add without prejudice.

He's beaming, obviously pleased with this state of affairs. "Oh, thank you mama! I look perfect.", he says with more than a little pride. Okay, so the kid's not humble.

See, I am a people-pleaser, after all.

Obsessive observations about poop

2004-08-23T15:10:00.000-05:00

Alas. My baby boy has the scours. Yes, once again, one of my precious children has driven me to obsess about poop. Presented below, my morning conversation with the doc's office, in convenient, Me vs Them format, for ease of reading:

Me: My kid's got the diarrhea. He's had it for three days. I can deal with that. It is quite troubling to me, however, because he's now having very few wet diapers. Very few. I wanna bring him in.

Them: Give him pedialyte. Take away all his formula. Only give him pedialyte, nothing else.

Me: Um, I don't wanna do that so much, my kid is underweight as it is. Plus, he's not taking his bottle so good now that he's sick. Plus, none of my kids have ever really drank much pedialyte ever, under any circumstances. I think this has to do with it tasting like crap, because I've tasted it myself, you know. Anyhow, I don't feel comfortable just casting my lot with pedialyte.

Them: (continuing on as if they haven't heard a damn thing I've said) only pedialyte for today, and then tomorrow only mix up his formula half-strength.

Me: I mean, the kid wakes up in the morning with no pee in his diaper. NO PEE, just crap. Plenty of that. When this phenomenon happened on Sunday, I thought it might be a fluke. But no, today it has happened again. A bone-dry diaper in the morning. After 11 hours. There is no pee even in the morning, this is what I, as a mother of 3, find quite alarming. Understan?

Them: Just pedialyte today. Just that. Call back tomorrow.

Me: (crying softly) But he's such a little tiny guy, he only weighs 13 lbs soaking wet. Fasting just doesn't seem like the greatest way to deal with illness, it's certainly not an approach I'm familiar with. I'm afraid he's dehydrated because of the aforementioned hysterical rambling that I just told you. You don't even have a medical degree, you're just the secretary after all . . . Please, can't I talk to the nurse, your professional opinion notwithstanding?

Them: Call back tomorrow.

Me: (to no one in particular) I hate you medical secretary. Damn you to hell for so callously dismissing my worries about excessive poop and lack of urine output. I am sending lots of bad karma your way, if it is possible to do such a thing. I'm hoping you catch every single bug encountered by your practice today.

I decide to completely disregard this asshat advice. I'm still giving C his formula, then offering him some pedialyte. He has consumed it with the enthusiasm that my other two children have, mostly because it tastes like ass, but partly because he's not taking his bottle so good during this illness.

Okay. Now that I've typed this out, I think maybe I'm overreacting. But don't you rest easy, medical secretary. Oh, I will be calling you tomorrow, sweetheart.

He probably thinks this blog is about him

2004-08-22T16:24:00.000-05:00

So in the interests of badmouthing both docs equally, I decided to blog about why I call Dr. Vain by that name. He's Dr. W's partner, and I had to see Dr V. a few times during my pregnancy.

Dr. Vain thinks that he's soooooo good looking, you know how you can just tell that about men. Since being my kinda-ob, now if I see Dr. V at my work (not uncommon) he comes over to me, to say hello in quite a regal tone of voice and to offer his up hand so that I can kiss, I mean, shake it. He means well, so I let it pass. He manages to keep this vain attitude despite the fact that he has back hair sticking out the neck of his shirt. Lots. of back hair. And some of it is graying back hair. Go figure.

Dr. V and I really only had one memorable encounter during my pregnancy, at about the 12 week mark when he informed me during an u/s that I wasn't pregnant. "Are you sure?", I asked. "Yes, I definitely don't see anything." said Dr. V. "Well, that's not good", I said. "Are you sure you're looking in the right place? I mean, 'cause the rad tech said everything looked fine a few days ago, and you don't seem to have the probe in the same spot she did." (A little impatiently), "Yes, I am sure that I'm looking in the right place", says Dr. V, without even a moment's hesitation. "Hmm . . . ", I reply, with more than a little skepticism in my tone.

I don't know why I was skeptical of Dr. V's opinion, because I'm usually quite pessimistic about the reproductive abilities of my own body. Mostly, I guess, it really didn't seem to me like he was looking in the right place.

That was not quite a year ago, and I now have a 4 month old. You can figure out which one of us was right. The bastard wasn't looking in the right place. So there.

Those known only to God

2004-08-21T16:54:00.000-05:00

Getupgrrl's oh so perfect post regarding Mizuko may just be the best damn bit of hot diggity blog I've ever read. I mean, but dayum. It's inspired me to the depths of my own personal nostalgia, to the creepy cobwebbed corners of my memory. I hardly ever go here, with good reason. But even with that in mind, I haven't forgotten a thing. Still.

While I wanted to write the story of my own miscarriage in grrl's comments section like everyone else, that almost seemed too public. I mean, everyone reads grrl's blog. Hardly anyone reads mine. So here, I have pseudo-privacy. Here, I feel safe. Here, I don't have to worry about rambling on too long, thereby using up grrl's entire comment section. Here, I don't have to worry about living up to the awesome poetic standard previously set by others tragic stories. Here, I can sound as crazy as I wanna be.

And so, here will reside the story of 12/28/92.

I was only 19, and had just become engaged. My period was just a bit late, and I am always regular. But I thought that I might be feeling pms symptoms so I agonized over whether to buy a test. Finally I did. The tests back then were the kind where you pee'd in the cup, then used a little dropper plus some other chemical and drip-dropped your very own urine plus the magic chemical onto the test pad, in order to obtain result. The instructions say to wait 5 minutes (tests were slower back then too), but after only a few seconds . . . It was positive. I decided that I must've done it wrong. I drop more urine. Still positive. I add a little more chemical. Still positive. I decide I haven't waited long enough to read the result. I go in the other room and return 15 minutes later. Still positive. Shit.

I go numb. I will stay that way for a long, long time.

I go sit down, frozen by fear. Am I happy? Am I sad? I am definitely scared. Certainly, I'm numb.

I go through about eleven weeks of pregnancy mostly by myself. My fiance is there, but he's not really there. How can he be when I'm so numb? How can anyone relate to that? Mostly, I am alone. Which is how I like it best during this time.

I go through swinging moods. The one thing that I do know about this pregnancy is that I love this little unexpected baby. The fiance, I don't love so much anymore. My future, I'm much more ambivalent about. My family, I'm too scared to face. But the baby, I do love. I decide to name it Caitlin if it's a girl (Caitlin wasn't so god-awful common back then) and tentatively decide on Austin for a boy, but I don't feel completely sure of that choice. My due date is July 19, not so far from my own birthday. I imagine being 9 months pregnant at my own party.

I put off going to the doctor for several weeks. Partly out of fear, partly out of denial, and partly because I'm scared that something might be wrong. Afterwards, I will wonder if seeing the doctor right away would've changed anything. I will feel guilt.

Once I'm at that fateful appointment, Dr. Weird keeps reminding me of how young I am (nothing, it seems, gets past him). He gives me what is the most painful and longest pap smear of my life. I swear, the man was intent on carving his initials into my cervix. This hurt so incredibly bad. Later I will wonder if somehow this had something to do with what happened. I will feel guilt for not hollering "stop it, that fucking hurts!"

My parents are horrified at the news of my approaching motherhood, rightfully so. After all, I am a good girl. No one saw this coming from me.

Then, just a few weeks after I break the news to them, I notice something pink. In my underwear. What is that, I wonder. I feel uneasy. When the pink stuff doesn't quit coming, I get worried. I call Dr. Weird. He offers no opinion on anything. I feel lost. I tell my mother, who calls her own former OB. That doctor tells me to go on complete bedrest. So, I do.

I lie in bed and pray for my baby. I have mental pep talks with my baby, telling him/her to hang on and be strong. I get sick of bedrest. I feel guilt for being sick of bedrest. This continues on for a few days. I start to feel a bit of hope. The pink isn't getting any worse. True, it's not better, but it's no worse. Surely, if something really bad were going to happen, it would've happened by now.

That night, something really bad does finally happen. I wake up so early, that it's still black as pitch. I don't feel right. And I feel . . . wet. I go to the bathroom and I see more blood than I've ever seen before. Blood is everywhere. I am scared. I am so scared. I know there's no way my baby will survive. It simply can't.

My mother takes me to the ER. The 45 minute drive is a silent one. I hurt so much, physically and spiritually. In my heart, I know my mom is relieved, even though she doesn't say it. Finally at the hospital, endless searching for a heartbeat, endless poking and prodding. I overhear a tech say that she doesn't know why they're looking for a heartbeat, she can tell my water has already broken. If I weren't so numb, this would break my heart. That's my baby you're talking about. Nurse Bitch keeps shouting at me that they have to confirm this is a miscarriage. Um, okay. Blood is still gushing out of me at an alarming rate, not sure what the hell else she thinks it could be. A nurse complains about me asking for pain meds, telling me that this is a process that I must endure. Oh, thanks for clarifying that for me. I am treated like I've received a late Christmas present--that this miscarriage has blessedly rescued me from motherhood at such a young age. And I understand that, really I do. I feel guilt, for mourning my baby. I feel sorry that I can't squeeze out the expected, obligatory gratitude for this crowd of bystanders. Yes, I know I am so young. Yes, I know, this is probably for the best. Yes, I know the baby was probably horribly deformed. Go away. Please just leave me alone.

Finally, a few people do manage to squeeze out some compassion my way: the rad tech who bawls like a baby herself while she's looking for the baby inside me and the surgeon who will eventually perform my d & c, because I just don't seem to stop bleeding. The thought occurs to me that the mattress on my hospital bed looks exactly like an enormous maxi pad. I take some bizarre, perverse pleasure in this destruction of hospital sheets.

My mother's ob stops by my room. She recommends that I get a Norplant, so I will have something "good and strong" for birth control. I'm a good girl, so I take her up on the offer. My mom puts my hair into a french braid, I put my clothes on, and I'm dismissed from the hospital. Dismissed is exactly how I feel. From that day forward, I can't stand my hair in a french braid. It reminds me of how I looked that day.

On the drive back home, afterwards, my mother rather stiffly informs me that "I had better never do this again for a long, long time." My ovaries apparently take this statement very much to heart, 'cause in a few months, the beginning of my pcos symptoms show themselves. Not that I know enough to recognize what they are. And so ultimately, my mom will get that particular wish: it will be 7 years before I adopt my beautiful daughter, and it will be well over a decade before I manage to get knocked up again.

During my 5 years suffering from infertility, I occasionally wonder if she ever thinks about and/or regrets this statement. I don't blame her for making it. I can even almost understand how she felt. I just wonder if she remembers it. I wonder if she wishes she could take it back. Since her grandchildren turned out to be so hard to come by, I wonder if she regrets treating that first one so casually.

One thing becomes glaringly and hurtfully clear: I might've wanted this baby. I might've loved this baby. I might've realized what a miracle this new little one is. But I am the only one.

And so I give a shout-out to whoever posted the comment somewhere that referred to these little babies lost as "those known only to God", I immediately loved that thought. The idea that God knew this little one is somehow a comfort.

The hunter becomes the hunted

2004-08-20T08:59:00.000-05:00

Most of our friends just thought that I'd just stay on Infertility Island forever. Yeah, I was one of those vaguely thunderstruck girls who quietly disembarked from the boat, most of my shit in tow. I quietly got my passport stamped and applied for my permanent resident card, and then eventually for citizenship of the fair isle. Yep, that was gonna be my new home. I was okay with it. Heck, eventually I forgot the name of the place and just rolled with it. I briefly considered a run for governor. No one (least of all me) expected that I'd ever leave my new digs and after a bit, I wasn't entirely sure that I even wanted to. I was something of a comfort to others, who managed to think "at least I haven't been here as long as Laurie has." Ah well, it was okay by me. I'd given up on trying to leave. But then the boat came by, and just like poor little Elian, I was spirited away from the only home I could recall.

WTF?

An odd thing is going on in my life right now. Since I'm not sure how to handle it, I've decided to just avoid it and yammer on about it in my blog. That seems harmless enough. I'm all about harmlessness.

I remember when DH and I were actively involved in infertility treatment. I recall feeling so depressed and I was convinced that the drugs were playing with my mind (which is none too stable without the influence of anything). Eventually, I did get to the point where I shunned all pregnant friends (i.e. "so what if we were best friends--you're knocked up, therefore you're dead to me now!"), I somewhat tearfully declined all baby shower invitations, I did not chip in for various office "baby pools" to guess due dates/birth weights/what the hell ever, I secretly seethed when acquaintances announced their happy pregnancy news, I did not go down the "wing" of the mall that housed Gymboree. It got to where when infertile friends announced their pregnancy, all I felt was jealousy for them, instead of my former "hey, score one for our team!". I was bad. I was dark. I was gloomy.

As I type this, I realize that damn, I really went all the way with this bitterness thingy. Typed out, it looks worse than it was. I think. Maybe. Well, dh says no, I was really over the top bitter. What the hell does he know from bitter. I decide to discount his opinion.

Once I dealt with my infertility issues and especially once we adopted our kids and were finally a family, somehow without my noticing I started going to baby showers again, and stopped glaring at random pregnant women finally, and God knows that Gymboree has seen enough of my money in the ensuing years.

Meanwhile, some friends of ours were also enduring IF treatment. While we pursued adoption, they persevered and treatment was eventually beautifully successful for them, and they now have a precious, charming toddler girl. This couple is in our small group of "couple friends". We don't have a lot of these. No, I don't mean swinging or anything, I mean those couples that you go to dinner-&-a-movie with, that kind of thing. DH and I are just too different and our schedule is crazy and whatever else, we just don't have a lot of couple friends. But we are friends with the "Q family". We've all hung out together, my kids got along great with their kid, there was a good age range there, and I've always thought of them as good parents.

Since we'd both suffered from IF at the same time, both of our families were surprised to find out last autumn that yes, both of our families would each be expecting new arrivals come springtime. Sadly, their family lost that pregnancy, right at the beginning of the second trimester. Dh and I were both so sad for them. I already had IF survivors guilt from this pregnancy, and this family's miscarriage only intensified it.

After a complicated pregnancy, and complicated delivery, and dealing with preemie baby struggles in the NICU, I was pretty self-centered. It was only recently that dh brought to my attention that the Q's didn't want to be my friend any more. ME? Because. I'd. had. a. baby. Upon hearing this, I don't know whether to laugh maniacally or to get a bit misty. I mean, me? Sub-fertile Myrtle? This is just all so shocking . . . so sudden.

I'm okay with this. I understand how she feels. I don't really feel like dh & I can spare any couple friends, but we can deal.

Damn, but this is weird. It's like the universe has been turned upside down. Boggles the mind, it do.

That's Ms. Manners to you . . .

2004-08-19T10:09:00.000-05:00

Around my office, we have a spontaneous event known as "Food Day". No, it is not a national holiday, but several of us enjoy the occasion, and yes, even look forward to it. On Food Day, each office member brings a favorite snack item to share, usually such foodstuffs are homemade but can be purchased if they are of good quality. Some of our favorite items to consume often include homemade brownies, tortilla roll-ups, cheese ball from the deli down the street, a box of doughnuts from the bakery, a still-warm homemade coffee cake. Not a hard concept to understand, no? Recently, it's been brought to my attention that, evidently, there needs to be some sort of laws governing Food Day. A framework needs to be established, if you will. A pall has been cast over this formerly joyous occasion, and that is truly a shame. I will set about to rectify the situation.

And so ladies and gentleman, I offer you:

FOOD DAY ETIQUETTE

1. If you don't bring a snack, then you are not allowed to gobble down other people's offerings on food day. Ya can't play if ya don't pay. Get outta our trough. No excuses.

2. A jar of peanut butter with toast crumbs in it, a half-eaten bag of stale potato chips, the leftover sandwich from your lunch, a hunk of cheese that you've cut the mold off of = all of these are fine examples of what does not qualify as a valued contribution to Food Day. These items are generally considered trash, not snack food.

3.A. If your own personal contribution to Food Day has leftovers, naturally you should feel free to take them home to share amongst your beloved family members. You should not feel free to pack up everyone's leftovers to take home to share amongst your own family members, meanwhile gleefully noting that you "will not have to cook supper now". Nonononononono.
3.B. Likewise, please do not leave your Food Day offering leftovers to fester in the fridge, growing hairier and more pungent with each passing month until somebody else pries it from the fridge and disposes of it for you. Snacks are not like fine wine, they do not improve with age. When it doubt, through it out. Your mother does not live here. And other shit like that.

4. If you are a habitual "non-contributor", then please stop scheduling Food Day. You don't get a vote. Once you get up off your lazy ass and bring a snack, then you can play God. Not until. Got it?

5. Please bring your food in. Clean. dishes. only. CLEAN. 'Nuf said.

The management thanks you for your cooperation in this matter. We now return to our regular broadcast schedule.

Sugar Mama

2004-08-18T09:04:00.000-05:00

Alternatively titled, I'm in love with a younger Korean boy

This particular entry comes with a general disclaimer: cheesy motherly bragging to follow, read on at your own peril.

Okay, so I dearly love all three of my kiddos, with a passion only another infertile can understand. Most days I marvel at my good luck of having three of the best kids right in my own house. How the hell did that happen?

But, back to today's topic.

Some days (like today), I'm guilty of favoring the middle kid, N. He is such a handsome little imp, who's just full of charm and orneriness. No matter how mad at him I am, those flirty big brown eyes and one of those dimpled grins almost always gets him off the hook, regardless of what monkeyshines he's been up to. With such disciplinary tactics, I'm reasonably sure that N is doomed to spend 15 to life on the far side of a plexiglass wall & we'll only be able to talk via those phones. Well, that is, when he's not whiling away daylight time on the chain gang.

And yes, I am aware that I'm not doing him any favors by spoiling him rotten. Each day, I renew my vow to work on this little problem of mine.

However, that is easier said than done.

Lately, he's taken to calling me by the name of "Sugar Mama" whenever he's in trouble. Or whenever he wants something. Or whenever he thinks I'm in a bad mood. Actually, he pronounces it "shugga-momma", which only makes it even more damn adorable. It melts my heart. How can I be mad at a kid with such charisma?

Maybe he won't be a felon after all. Looking back over this entry, it seems more likely he'll end up a gigolo.

Life may be good, but it still takes chocolate to get me through the day

2004-08-17T16:03:00.000-05:00

In spite of dh's good wishes this morning, I was still forced to resort to a brownie batter blizzard to cope with the afternoon trauma of work (it was a small, I only ate a third of it). I knocked that back with a good dose of cyber-shopping (the books were used, they were bargain-priced, I couldn't pass that up, could I?) and now I'm good to go.

Really. I am. Particularly since it's almost quitting time.

Smirk. I'm such a smart ass.

And now for something completely different . . .

2004-08-17T14:47:00.000-05:00

How can I bitch on a day like today?

It's a given that work still sucks my ass, and furthermore the kids refused to eat what I'd planned for their lunch (thinking about just leaving them each a supersized bag of chips to last all week, after that they're on their own), my own lunch at a pricey restaurant (not of my choosing) tasted like Palmolive, and that stubborn baby still isn't eating very good (I'm sure the good folks at Enfamil are laughing their rich asses off at how much formula this kidlet wastes). I did manage to derive some sort of sick enjoyment from the fact that my 6 year old and I have managed to convince the 4 y.o. that we'll be biting off his toes, frying them up in the fry-daddy, liberally coating them with season salt and then serving them to the dog. He's been hiding his feet for a day and a half. Yeah, good times.

There I am, meandering through my mediocre day and an email from my dh comes along. I cringe. I employ one of my favored defense mechanisms, that of procrastination, and proceed to ignore it for a good long while. Then, once I decide I'm feeling strong enough, I open it.

What. the. fucking. fuck?

It's just a note to say he loves me.

Excuse me, but who's husband is this, anyway? My husband certainly doesn't do Hallmark quality crap like this. For a moment, I consider that perhaps his work computer has some sort of weird-ass virus. Or maybe someone else is using his email account in some sort of cruel prank.

But no, it's for real.

See, my life's not all bad. Good things can happen. Really.

I'm in such a good mood, maybe I'll just let the 4 y.o. keep his toes intact. Maybe.

Dr. Weird, I presume

2004-08-17T11:12:00.000-05:00

Since I tend to go on about my pcos and I do plan on blogging about at least some of the more significant events in my pregnancy (just in case I ever get 'round to starting/completing C's baby book), I want to provide a brief background on why I call Dr. Weird by that well-earned name. Well, at times, he could've been referred to as Dr. FatBastard, but I decided I want to save that name in case I have a more deserving doctor in the future. Now, you may wonder why I chose to go to such a flaky ob. 'Cause this is the only ob practice in town? that's why.

So, in bulleted format, here are just a few of the many weirdness examples:

"Let's not focus on a 'due date' per se. Try not to think that the baby will be here on a particular day. Think of it as a best-estimate"~when asked by me what my due date was. OK fucker let's not get all new age-y, when's my damn due date.
"If you want a second opinion, then I will set one up for you."~when asked by me if my high blood pressure was a sign of impending pre-eclampsia. I can go for that doc, so set it up then.
"I decided you didn't need it."~when I asked when/with whom my second opinion appt was arranged. Well, okay dude. It was your idea.
"I don't know the results of your blood work from last week, because my partner, Dr. V set that up."~um, so I have a different chart for each of you docs, even though you're in the same practice and it's mandatory that I spend quality time with both of you? That's a dumb-ass thing to do, if you ask me.
"Look at that baby go." Said in a rather admiring tone of voice while watching a 14 week old Cletus the Fetus on u/s. This was rather endearing, but other shit later cancelled the endearing part out.
"Don't eat any ham. I had a patient one time, she gained 5 lbs from eating one ham sandwich. Ham is very, very bad."
"What do you want me to do, talk in code?"~when I told him that he was making me feel a little doomed about my pregnancy. Okay, so I was a tad hormonal. He's an ob for christsakes, he should be used to that kind of shit.

So, there you go. What the hell else could his name be?

Life in a normal size

2004-08-16T15:32:00.000-05:00

So most of last year's fall clothes are maternity. They're not bad, as far as maternity clothes go, but they don't really do much for me now. And, um, evidently here in the midwest we decided to go directly from spring to fall, as seasons go. Which is not necessarily a bad thing. Just different. But if we were going to be skipping seasons, I'd just as soon we skip the winter one. But I digress . . .

Anyway, I find myself in need of fall clothes. Last fall's clothes were maternity. The fall before that's clothes are of the plus-sized variety. I no longer require either of those kind of clothes. WOO HOO!

I now require normal sized clothes.

God, when you are normal sized, clothes shopping is such fun. Don't get me wrong, shopping for maternity clothes was fun too (especially given that as a recovering infertile, it was a pleasure I thought I'd have to forgo), but maternity clothes are ever-so-vaguely cut similarly to plus-size clothes. That fact alone makes it just a smidgen less enjoyable for a formerly plus-sized girl.

It's still such a novelty for me to try on clothes and look good (relatively speaking, of course), in them. I still have to remind myself a) not to go to the plus sized department and b) that I don't have to avoid looking in the mirror. I'll look decent in the stuff I'm trying on. I don't have to worry about needing a bigger size, because yes, indeedy, there is a bigger size available, should I require it. That has not always been true for me.

I can, in fact, buy trendy clothes if I wish to. (Except for low rise pants. Reference earlier blogging). I do not, however, need to feel confined to what Lane Bryant considers trendy. I have clothing options, for Christ sake. Options--say what??! Imagine that, those odd things that clothing manufacturers think fat girls don't need. Pregnant girls don't get that many clothing options either, for whatever reason.

All these mighty big options (such as shirts that don't tie in the back, dresses without a high waist, pants in more than one length) are gonna take some getting used to. Do other women really take this shit for granted?

The state of my stomach skin

2004-08-13T21:59:00.000-05:00

My stomach skin provides all the support of a wet paper bag.

Yes, I knew that after a gastric bypass I wouldn't look like an ab-roller commercial. I was okay with that. I didn't harbor any secret fantasies about this.

And yes, I realized there would be some sagging skin after losing nearly half my body weight. Some saggage, I could handle. I deal with pcos every day, and that has robbed me of most of whatever vanity I possessed during my youth.

And of course, I didn't expect my subsequent pregnancy to improve the situation on my stomach any. At least I wasn't disappointed on this count. Pregnancy did indeedy make my already-horrific looking stomach skin even more crepe-y, crinkly, and droopy. I was mildly surprised (okay, maybe relieved is the more correct word) that Dr. Grandfatherly Genius was able to a) actually able to find the correct spot for my c-section incision, and b) that my completely tired out skin managed to heal from said incision.

I actually have pants now that I don't wear, not because I can't fit into them (although I have pants like that too) but because my stomach skin hangs over the waist band! Actually hangs there, flappin' in the breeze like a banner advertising my former fatness. Just to be perfectly clear, the overhang is not caused from flab, mind you, (although there is just a bit of that there), but from having zero-elasticity left. None. Nada. Zip. Zilch. It's only a matter of time before the not-so-elegant drape of skin reaches to my knees, the law of gravity is bound to work on that eventually. Another somewhat surprising aspect is that my freakish stomach appearance phases my kids not at all. It periodically crosses my mind to wonder why they don't ask about it, since they're certainly quite entranced by my cesarean scar.

I don't have any insurance coverage for plastic or "reconstructive" surgery. Like I could be brave enough for that anyway--pulling together this sodden mass would have to hurt like a bitch and I'm too much of a wimp. And dh and I aren't rich like that (this issue covered in an earlier bitch session), so we can't afford to pay out of pocket for it. Dh has the idea to pimp me out to "Trash can of skin" or "extreme makeover", but I'm just too shy for crap like that.

So I guess I'll just continue to deal with tucking the saggage into my control top hose. As dh likes to point out, it's certainly better than having all that skin full of fat, as it once was. He's never been fat though, so sometimes comments like that piss me off. But he tries to be supportive. It would just be more helpful if he could take some crash course in at-home plastic surgery.

I know, saggage is not so bad actually, as problems go. It's just so hideously unattractive.

But I can still bitch about it.

Yeah, like you didn't already know that.

Dear Lord, Please don't let me look as freakish as I feel.

2004-08-12T13:37:00.000-05:00

Amen.

You know what I'm referring to. That mental appearance checklist that you go through when you have pcos. That checklist that drums through your head much like a particularly irritating song lyric or some crucial tenet of newfound religion. After all, as civilized and open-minded as some members of our society might be, the world just isn't quite ready to see the natural, unembellished effects of pcos on a girl. I think it goes against the grain of our culture and may even break an amendment or two. Or maybe not. Anyway, a girl with pcos feels obligated to cushion the blow, as much as possible anyway, to the general public.

Of course, it's absolutely positively mandatory that you run through the pcos checklist quite thoroughly first thing in the morning. I mean, one can't face the world looking like one belongs in the circus, even if somedays you can't help feeling like you belong there. The day should at least start out as normal as possible. And, it's still crucial that you run through the checklist periodically as you go about your daily routine out amongst the general public. And yeah, it still feels rather obligatory to run through the checklist at least a time or two even while in the comfort of your own home. There's just some things a girl doesn't necessarily want her husband to know. In many of these instances, ignorance is, indeed, bliss.

Bleached/tweezed offending hair, as necessary? Check!

Shaved offending hair, as needed? Check!

Utilization of necessary miracle skin-care products to control acne that plagues us still? Check!

Expertly applied super-absorbent facial powder to control unwanted oil-slick-like shine? Check!

Lipstick chosen in flattering neutral tone to draw attention to more attractive aspects of face and away from blotchiness of skin? Check!

Covertly styled hair to camouflage hair loss, employing creative use of hats and/or super-holding styling products, as needed? Check!

Rogain (need I explain more?)? Check!

Birth control pills (or insert your fertility potion of choice here), glucophage, spironolactone, and/or other meds taken to counteract/control/otherwise to wage neverending yet often useless battle against miscellaneous undesirable pcos side effects? Check!

Stomach discretely tucked into super-sucker control-top pantyhose? Check!

Ulcer meds to counteract endless worry about long term pcos effects such as heart disease, diabetes that could potentially result in senseless early death? Check!

Price of all of the above products? Oh, let's just say upwards of $500 (and I'm not counting those who need some injectible not-covered-by-precious-insurance precscription meds in this).

Feeling like you've got the world fooled about how you really realllly look? Priceless.

In this way, life is not fair.

No, don't mind me I'm just a normal girl, thanks. Kindly avert your eyes, nothing to see here.

The Joy of Soy

2004-08-11T09:23:00.000-05:00

Per my 3 month old, the soy farmers of the heartland can kiss his pampers-clad butt.

During my pregnancy, I never gave formula a lot of thought for this little guy. I was a formula veteran--having adopted two babies, I knew the in's and out's of Enfamil vs. Similac, silicon vs. rubber, disposable vs. reusable. However, for a change, I was looking forward to the opportunity of breastfeeding this little one. What's that saying about the best laid plans always getting crapped up? Life (perhaps that should be edited to say "MY life") has a way of screwing things up, and when Cole arrived a bit early, he was too small and too weak to nurse. I pumped for awhile, but he just could never get the hang of it. So, I grudgingly turned to the bottle for comfort. Or rather, the baby did. Things worked out well for awhile, but as of late . . .

I'd noticed that my little darling had been having quite a bit of gas with his bottles. He was arching and squirming as though his 'iddle tummy hurt. He was fussy and crabby after his bottle. So, this being my third kidlet, I don't need no stinking doctor. I diagnose him with milk sensitivity and promptly start mixing up some soy-based formula confection, in all its stenchy glory. Good Lord, is there NO WAY to make the soy formula smell a little less raunchy? MUST it smell like ass? With all our modern technology, can't the stuff be infused with a yummy smelling aroma? Forget about this new-fangled LIPIL crap, and concentrate on improved smell, for criminy's sake.

But, back to our topic. Now my little munchking is slurping away a bottle o' soy formula. And like magik, gas is nearly gone! I congratulate myself on a parenting job well done. I consider writing parenting book. I mentally spend advanced money for authorship of parenting book. I mentally spend advanced money three times over. I pat self on back again. I am so proud of self. Look, baby is so less gassy. I am gifted at this mothering shit, truly I am. Gifted. I consider going to medical school and becoming beloved, world-reknowned pediatrician. As an added bonus, I have saved family the $15 copay of a doctor visit. I add thrifty to my list of inner virtues. Decide to mentally spend the $15 that I saved. It is mine after all, since I was the one who did the saving.

But wait.

Soy formula may be less gas-inducing, but my little darling doesn't seem to like it. He doesn't seem to be eating it. At. All. Okay, maybe that is an exaggeration. A bit. But he is definitely not eating with the usual gusto. As the overprotective momma of a preemie baby, I notice such things. That said, I decide to take approach inspired by own grandmother (a little-known goddess of childrearing, undoubtedly where I get my own prowess, certainly I am channeling her spirit at this moment), in the form of "when he gets hungry, he'll eat." Well, that is Sunday. Monday, baby is still not a fan of soy. Tuesday am, baby is still not convinced. His ever-deepening scowl lets me know he will never be vegan.

Tuesday pm, I break down. I mix up more of his old moo-based formula. Baby promptly slugs back an entire bottle, then enjoys gas induced squirming and arching and proceeds to fart in careless abandon. The idea enters my head that perhaps baby not only enjoys the taste of milk, he seems to be enjoying the gassy squirming. Which makes perfect sense, once I consider his father's own habits.

Make note to self re: the need to pick up some lacto-free formula at the local 'mart.

My potential so-called mid-life career change

2004-08-10T13:22:00.000-05:00

Monique of Infertile Me provides much inspiration. Whilst TV might not be my best friend, at times that's certainly open for debate. And if there's one thing I'm quite capable of, it's rotting my brain via TV. Of course, I'm not so good at it now, as I was pre-kids, as my time and choices are understandably restricted during their waking hours.

My favorite tv show of late is (drum roll, please):

American Chopper, which I think is on TLC, but maybe it's on Discovery or something like that. I can't remember for sure. As long as I use that "remind me" feature on the remote control, I'm not really required to keep track of the actual channel. The kids do not understand this fascination at all. Trading Spaces, they're okay with, and Noah's favorite show is For Better or for Worse (go figure), but Chopper, they just don't get. But it's usually on after their bedtime, so they don't usually provide much interference.

Chopper has it all--conflict, profanity, humor and bike-building all rolled up in a tidy package. Now I hearing your rumblings, and no, I've never ridden or even considered riding a motorcycle in my whole life and I've certainly never seen a "chopper", but from afar. Admittedly, my life experience is limited in this arena. Quite possibly, bike-building isn't the glamourous lifestyle as indicated by this oracle. Maybe. I am willing to consider that fact briefly.

But still, the show appeals to me. I've spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about this, turning it over my my non-biker-babe brain. The idea of taking metal, paint, and a bunch of other crap and somehow (presto, change-o) rendering it driveable is just somehow appealing. A chopper sometimes is almost like art--depending on the builder, the different combinations of frames, colors, shapes, and use of effects make such an awesome individual creation. I could be a bike-artist (meanwhile, conveniently forgetting that no one has ever ever ever for any reason considered me artistic). At the end of their project, they have a bike to show for it! A shiny, chrome-y bike. How cool is that? Part of this show's appeal, is, I'm sure, the shiny-ness. How can one resist shiny? It's simple: ya just can't. Plus, the general bitchiness of Paulie and Senior combined with the sponge-bob-y quality of Mikey just heightens the irresistibleness.

So now I want to make a bike. I don't want to ride it or whatever, I just want to build it. The best I can discern is that first, I will need to learn how to fabricate metal. That seems to be a key issue. The other stuff I decide to figure out later. Being his usual helpful and oh-so-supportive self, DH pipes up that he doesn't know where the hell I'm going to learn how to do that. My dad, who at least tries, says that I'll have to be an apprentice somewhere (the vagueness isn't his fault, it's the best he can figure), and then they (whoever I'm apprenticed to? is that who 'they' is?) will teach me the trade.

Huh.

The apprenticeship sounds like more commitment than I want to put out, in the name of bike building. It sounds like an awful lot of effort, too. I was thinking more along the lines of a month-long class at the local tech school or a book on tape or something.

Food is not my friend

2004-08-09T16:18:00.000-05:00

isn't now, has never been and never will be. I kind of make myself sick when I think about how long I depended on food for comfort. Blathering along like an idiot, thinking I could eat my way happy. What the hell was I thinking?? What else can I say, but life can be a bitch and I can no longer hobble along on that food crutch like back in the ol' days.

I've already pissed and moaned quite a bit about my job hunt (definitely, almost certainly there will be more of the same in the near future). What I haven't been quite ready to reveal is that this is my first major crisis since my gastric bypass, nearly two years ago.

Now, don't misunderstand: I have never regretted this surgery, not for a single instant. I can never forget, even for one millisecond, how lucky I am to be given this second chance. Feel free to insert lots of endlessly grateful blathering from this former fat girl. However, in these many ensuing days as a post-op, I'd kinda forgotten my tendency to turn to food in a crisis. I guess I was just too busy pretending that I was just a normal girl, enjoying the surprisingly weird feelings of being not-fat-and-not-infertile, for the time being. Anyway. That wasn't such a good idea, 'cause I've been unpleasantly surprised by the reality of my situation.

It's not that I've been strictly on the straight-&-narrow since my surgery (far from it, blush), hoo boy, not at all. BUT, this is the first time the intense longing to eat an entire bag of miniature reese's cups and then wash it down with a few chilly liters of pepsi has hit me in forever. Just typing those words makes me a little trembly. Hee. (said in a breathy tone, tinged with just the barest hint of mania and rounded out by an ever-so-slight infusion of hysteria)

Thus is the world of an addict my friends. Welcome to my calorie-crazed nightmare. After all, you can take the football-field-sized stomach out of the fat girl, but you just can't take the "longing" for the capacity of that aforementioned stomach. I feel confident that normal people just don't have to battle these binging urges. Really. I do.

Now I'm thinking what life would be like if one didn't ever think about binging. Crap, now that is a novel idea.

Now, be grateful that I'm not indulging the sudden urge I have to break out into sonnett, devoted to all the candy I have loved before.

Blogger without a cause

2004-08-04T16:27:00.000-05:00

My conflicts all started when I realized that I'm not, technically, the infertile chick that I used to be.

A fact for which I am eternally, exceedingly grateful. But for the grace of God yadda, yadda, yadda . . .

However:

Normally,in the past whenever I blogged, it was usually about my PCOS and the problems that it caused me, the depression that I felt about my infertility, and how bleak the future looked for dh & I without kids. All this crap was depressing as hell, but I did have a "niche" in bloggerdom--sisters with whom to share my bitchiness. After all, I had a right to the bitchiness, dammit. I felt that venting my spleen via my blog was helpful to others possibly even a public service in providing support and info and empathy and sympathy and all that other warm fuzzy crap. Eventually, though I made my peace with all that IF quagmire, slogging through it all at a snail's pace until I managed to convince two (two!!) different social workers that I was, in fact, capable and worthy, even dare I say it, to adopt two babies. I'm a MOM! Wow. There were endless, countless, hopeless nights where I never, ever ever thought I'd get to say that.

I did ditch the childlessness and yeah, I became the tired, old, worn-out fucking cliche and rather haplessly ditched the infertility thingy too.

That said, those badges of honor may be gone.

But the bitchiness remains.

Whenever I read of others infertility blogs now, I feel petty. PETTY. Self-absorbed. I feel shallow blogging about petty. Reading those blogs takes me right back to how I felt. Dealing with my crappy job be damned, I know all too well that's nothing compared to begging for another hit of hcg and every-other-day conjugal visits with the dildo-cam.

I don't know where this is going, except that I feel less self-centered today than I did yesterday. Which is something, I guess.

Gloom, despair, and agony on me

2004-08-03T10:20:00.000-05:00

deep dark depression, excessive misery . . .

alternatively titled, Has God Forsaken Me in the Blasted Job Quest?

Am I ever going to find a new friggin' job? I have helped countless friends with their job hunt while I was pregnant (and thus, unable to hunt for myself), I have tweaked other people's resumes and proofread cover letters 'til my eyes crossed. Thereby shouldn't there be some enormous amount of good-job-hunt karma or some such crap coming my way? Isn't that only fair? This sucks, really it does, because you know I spend most of my waking hours at work, for Christ sake. DH is no help at all, because as he so eloquently and helpfully puts it, he can't just crap me a job. Gee, dear, thanks. I was bumbling about under the assumption that you did, in fact, carry boundless employment opportunities in your anal sphincter. Now we know it's nothing that maalox can't cure. Love you too. Smooch.

Despite the pointless drama above, life's not all bad. Possibly I should focus on something positive, lest I become suicidal.

My kids are great. If we weren't so fucking poor, I would stay home with them, really I would. They are tons of fun. There's an idea--my dh should actually be the one on a job hunt, for a new and improved job that will pay better and allow me to stay home with my babies. Then I could sit on the couch, snuggle with my 3 month old (who seems to grow and change and accomplish at twice the rate he did whilst I was on maternity leave, oh crap, now I'm depressed that the little bugger is thriving without me, sob), eat chips ahoy and watch Dora the Explora in careless friggin' abandon. Now, my friends, that would rock my world. Unfortunately for me, dh is not on board with this plan at all, whatsoever. Which is why I'm sending out resumes to the few available job openings in this employment wasteland. Why me, Lord, why????

Shit, I thought I was going to focus on something positive, but this just turned into more job-related bitching. Oh no, all roads lead to job-related bitching. For today, anyway.

And, we're out of those Pepperidge Farm cookies at home. I purposefully didn't buy any more.

Shit.

A poke in the eye with a sharp stick . . .

2004-08-02T16:52:00.000-05:00

so for the past three weeks, I've wanted a blog, but now that I've got one, whadda I do with it? Is it rare for a girl to have so much bitching to do, that she doesn't know where to start? Maybe I should write some sort of introduction prior to just jumping into the bitching. But I really wanted the blog for bitching, not for introducing. I think that tomorrow I will start in earnest, with an introduction AND bitching, possibly even dividing these into logical, easy-to-understand categories.